


Here Be Dragons

by YouKnowNothinJonSno



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 3 years after book 7, Angst, Apologies, Auror Harry Potter, Cute, Draco living in the muggle world, Drarry, EWE, Exasperated Draco Malfoy, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Forgiveness, M/M, Obsessive Harry Potter, Pining, Post-War, Slow Burn, apology not accepted, bookstore, side lavender/pansy, side ron/hermione, stubborn malfoy, stupid Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2018-11-06 06:08:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 35,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11030229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouKnowNothinJonSno/pseuds/YouKnowNothinJonSno
Summary: After Harry accidentally runs into Draco in the muggle world, he comes to the decision that he needs to apologize to him and the other Slytherins for how he treated them in school.  Draco just wants to be left alone, but has Harry ever done anything Draco wanted?





	1. The Dragon's Lair

It was a dreary day out, the kind where the sky was as grey as the pavement, and the sun was nothing but a faint glow. The air was still and bitter cold, and Draco shivered under his padded coat. His lunch hour was almost up, and he was on his way back to the bookstore when there was a loud _pop!_ and he walked straight into someone.  
  
“Watch it!” Draco snapped, stepping back, but he froze when he saw who was blocking his way.  
  
“Er, sorry,” Harry-bloody-Potter muttered distractedly, looking around in confusion. His unruly black hair was worse than ever, like he’d been running his hands through it all morning, and his lightening-shaped scar was peeking out from behind his fringe. He was wearing auror robes, with the Ministry of Magic’s seal on the front, looking distinctly non-muggle. Judging by the increasing amount of stares and whispers around them, the muggles thought so too. Draco couldn’t believe the nerve of this man.  
  
“Potter, you idiot,” Draco hissed, dragging him by the lapels into a side alley. “You just apparated onto a muggle street!”  
  
“Malfoy?” Potter said in surprise, and Draco rolled his eyes.  
  
“Yes, Potter, I’m the one you rudely apparated into, now what the hell are you doing?”  
  
Potter blinked a few times behind his round glasses, looking even more like an idiot than usual. “Malfoy,” he repeated stupidly, “Why are you here?”  
  
“For Merlin’s sake, Potter,” Draco grumbled, shoving away from the offending man. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.” With that, he turned and strode away, back towards the shop.  
  
“Malfoy, wait!” Potter called out, running to catch up.  
  
Draco pivoted on his heel to face the clueless auror again, and Potter had to pull up short so that he wouldn’t run into him. “What?” the blonde demanded.  
  
The other man looked rather taken aback by Draco’s harsh tone. “Er,” he said, ducking his head a bit, “Where am I, exactly?”  
  
Draco stared at him in disbelief. “Potter, are you absolutely mad? You apparated here.”  
  
The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Annoy-Draco-Malfoy shrugged slightly as he ran a hand through his already impossibly messy hair. Draco wanted to swat his hand away, on behalf of all hairstylists. “Well,” Potter started awkwardly, “I didn’t exactly apparate.” He then held up a small antique key, rusted and attached to a thin cord. Draco awaited elaboration, but Potter didn’t seem obliged to go on.  
  
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” he sighed, crossing his arms. It really was quite cold and he longed for the cozy warmth of the bookstore.  
  
The hint of a blush crept onto Potter’s cheeks, but Draco didn’t know if that was from the cold or embarrassment. “Er, right, I mean, this is a portkey,” he clarified hastily. “Only, I didn’t know that until….”  
  
“Until you ended up here?” Draco finished, smirking a little. “Aren’t you an auror, Potter? Don’t you know how to detect these things?”  
  
“Alright, alright, laugh it up,” Potter sighed, and Draco was surprised at how lighthearted he sounded. If they were back in school, this exchange would’ve been enough to start a fight. With a start, Draco realized just how long it had been since they’d last seen each other. It had been a little over three years since Draco’s trial, where Potter had spoken in his defense and was instrumental in getting Draco and his mother greatly reduced sentences. He only had to serve one year’s house arrest — which turned into eight months for good behavior — and his mother had only served two years house arrest — surprisingly without good behavior. Mother was always used to having her way, and it seemed house arrest didn’t suit her very well. Draco was only glad she didn’t get a worse punishment for trying to leave the manor grounds as much as she did.  
  
When Draco was released, his mother insisted he get a position at the Ministry, but Draco knew that wasn’t going to happen. For one, no sane person in the magical community would hire an ex-Death Eater. But for another, Draco didn’t want to go back to how things were before, where the Malfoys were both feared and hated, and only a very few members of society thought them respectable. He wanted to be invisible, as if he was wearing Potter’s famous cloak, and he wanted to do something quiet, peaceful. It was pure luck he found The Dragon’s Lair on a rainy day about a month after his release. He’d been wondering muggle streets, looking for something to catch his eye. The name made him pause. It was almost dusk, and he’d promised to have dinner with mother, but he couldn’t resist walking into the shop. It was a dimly-lit bookstore, with dust on every surface, and a tiny old woman sitting behind her desk.  
  
“Oh hello dear,” she said in a squeaky voice that sounded as unused as the books around her. “I’m closing up in a minute, but please look around if you like.”  
  
“Thank you,” Draco said politely. He glanced around the tiny shop, and chose an aisle at random, walking down it in wonder. There were so many books, old books, just sitting there around him — so many words, so much knowledge — and the realization of that filled him with awe. He could learn so much, about muggle culture, muggle religion, muggle everything, and it could push out all the unwanted thoughts, the dark memories that he tried so hard to suppress. Draco walked back to the woman’s desk, knowing he would have to leave soon anyway. She was still there, inspecting a giant encyclopedia from the 1800s. It was in French.  
  
“Pardon me, ma’am,” Draco said, and the old woman looked up at him with a wan smile. “Do you mind me asking why this bookstore is called The Dragon’s Lair?”  
  
“Ah,” said the old woman, “an excellent query. You’re familiar with the phrase ‘Here be dragons’?” She looked at him expectantly.  
  
“I’m afraid not,” Draco said. In all honesty, it was a common sign in the wizarding world for dragon-infested areas, but in a muggle context Draco was unsure.  
  
“Well,” the woman went on as if she had expected as much, “in olden times, when the first maps were being created, people hadn’t explored everywhere yet. And so, in the places they hadn’t explored, they would draw sea serpents and lizard-monsters with the caption ‘Here be dragons’ to indicate the unknown. You see?”  
  
“Alright,” Draco muttered, thinking they had probably labeled the maps correctly.  
  
“All of these books here,” she went on, “contain so much knowledge that most people are unaware of. To so many people, these books are uncharted territory. So until you open a book and read it, it could be anything.”  
  
“Here be dragons,” Draco replied, grinning.  
  
The woman smiled back. “Precisely.” She then stood, taking out a keychain, and Draco felt rather cold with the thought of having to leave the quaint bookstore.  
  
“Do you need any help?” Draco asked suddenly, and the old woman raised her eyebrows in surprise. “I mean, do you need an assistant, to help around the shop?”  
  
“I’m afraid,” she said kindly, patting his hand, “I can’t afford to take anyone on, dear.”  
  
“You wouldn’t have to pay me,” he blurted, a little too desperately.  
  
She looked him over appraisingly, like she was trying to see if he was up to something. It reminded him of Professor McGonagall. Finally, the woman offered her hand with a warm smile. Draco took it gratefully. “You may call me Dr. Finch.”  
  
“You’re a doctor?” Malfoy asked, feeling thrown.  
  
Dr. Finch winked charmingly. “Not that kind of doctor.” She released his hand. “And you are?”  
  
“Draco Malfoy,” he told her, and her eyebrows raised but she didn’t comment. “Not a doctor,” he added with a wink of his own.  
  
“Wait, if this is a muggle street,” Potter said loudly, rudely interrupting Draco’s thoughts, “what are you doing here?”  
  
Draco frowned at him, barely managing not to glare. “I work here,” he said coolly.  
  
Potter raised his eyebrows stupidly. “Really?”  
  
“Yes,” the blonde growled, and Potter seemed to finally realize how offensive he was being, because he quickly amended, “Well, that’s…good. Great, I mean. Great for you.”  
  
Rolling his eyes again, Draco made to leave, but Potter reached out and grabbed his arm. “Malfoy,” he said, sounding embarrassed — as he should be.  
  
“What?” Draco exclaimed, turning to face him again and brushing off his hand.  
  
Potter blushed for sure this time. “I, er, don’t have my wand with me.”  
  
Draco gaped at him.  
  
“And this portkey is dead now,” Potter added sheepishly.  
  
It was all Draco could do not to roll his eyes.  
  
“And…I’m a bit lost.”  
  
“Potter,” Draco stressed, “you’re an _auror_. You’re supposed to be prepared for things like this.”  
  
The “auror” shrugged helplessly.  
  
“Fine,” Draco said in annoyance, “I’ll get you a map. Do you have any money on you?”  
  
Potter grimaced.  
  
“Great,” Draco went on. “You owe me.” The moment those words left Draco’s mouth he regretted them fiercely. No one owed Draco anything, not after the war. Especially not the savior of the wizarding world, who had saved him from fiendfyre, and a life in azkaban. This man, whom Draco had tormented all growing up, owed him nothing. If anything, Draco should be begging forgiveness at his feet.  
  
Draco bristled at the idea. A Malfoy never begged, even the pathetic last heir. Mother would be appalled.  
  
“Thanks,” Potter mumbled, following Draco down the street to The Dragon’s Lair. When they reached the bookstore, Potter — predictably — snorted. “You have a —?”  
  
“Lair, yes,” Draco snapped irritably. “Very funny, Potter.”  
  
The auror paused. “I only meant,” he backtracked, “is that a coincidence?”  
  
“Yes,” Draco said.  
  
Inside, Dr. Finch sat behind her desk as usual, eyeglasses on as she surveyed an old Greek text. Dr. Finch was a linguist, and she was fluent in eight different spoken languages, as well as several dead languages, including Greek. She looked up as they came in. “Draco,” she said warmly, “you’ve brought a friend.”  
  
“Not a friend,” Draco grumbled, but introduced them anyway. “Potter, this is Dr. Finch, the owner of this wonderful bookstore and the smartest person I’ve ever met. Dr. Finch, this is Harry Potter, a massive git who likes to wear baggy dresses.”  
  
Dr. Finch’s eyes sparkled at the praise as she held her hand out. Potter took her hand and shook it, though he looked mildly mortified by the comment about his wizard robes. “Pleasure to meet you,” Dr. Finch said politely.  
  
“Same,” said the rudest wizard who ever lived, dropping her hand.  
  
Dr. Finch was unfazed. “How can I help you, Mr. Potter?”  
  
To prevent further rudeness, Draco opted to speak for him. “Do we have any maps, Doctor? Potter has somehow lost his way.”  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, Draco could see Potter frowning at him. “Oh yes,” said Dr. Finch, reaching below the counter. “I just got some yesterday, after those tourists from Germany came in the other day asking for one. Always good to have some on hand.”  
  
“How much?” Potter apparently felt the need to ask, despite having no money on him.  
  
“Oh,” Dr. Finch said, waving her other hand as she pushed a map toward them across her desk, “on the house, of course. A friend of Draco’s is a friend of mine.”  
  
“He’s not a friend,” Draco insisted, fishing out a £5 note from his wallet and placing it on her desk.  
  
“It’s good of you to drop by,” she continued merrily to Potter, ignoring Draco’s glare. “He has so few friends.”  
  
“Back in a moment,” Draco growled, grabbing the map and pushing Potter in front of him to the door. Once they were outside again, in the freezing cold, Draco glanced up, expecting to see Potter’s stupid smirk, but instead the other man was frowning at him with — Merlin, was that _pity_ in his eyes? Draco felt anger boiling up inside him as he ripped the map open and jabbed his finger at a spot on Norwood Road. “We’re here,” he forced out through gritted teeth, and jabbed his finger at a different spot. “This is the closest entrance to the Ministry. Now go.”  
  
Before Potter could say a word, Draco shoved the map into his hands and stomped back into The Dragon’s Lair.


	2. The Right Thing

“Blimey, Harry, have you gone completely bonkers?” Ron exclaimed, shoveling more eggs into his mouth.

Hermione sat next to him, looking at Harry with concern. “Harry,” she said in her most condescending voice, “this isn’t really healthy, is it?”

“It’s the right thing to do!” Harry insisted as he flicked his wand to set the dishes scrubbing. His friends looked unconvinced. “And what do you mean by healthy, anyway? What’s wrong with apologizing? I would think that’s a good thing.”

Ron and Hermione shared a look. “Well, normally it is,” Hermione hedged, “but is that really why you’re doing this?”

Harry looked blankly at them. “Yes, Hermione,” he said, “I don’t have some ulterior motive for apologizing to the Slytherins.”

Hermione sighed, looking at Ron for help. “Mate,” Ron cut in as Harry frowned at them, “you kind of have a habit of bothering Malfoy.”

Harry’s mouth fell open.

“An obsession, really,” Hermione amended.

_Unbelievable._ Ron at least had the decency to look sheepish, but Hermione just raised her eyebrows unapologetically. “It’s…not like that,” Harry protested at last.

“Isn’t it?” Hermione challenged. “Harry, you were fixated on him all through school. Half the time you were off stalking him!”

“That was different! He was working for Voldemort!”

Ron flinched infinitesimally. “Well, only the one time,” he said.

Harry looked between the two, frustration welling in his gut. “I haven’t even seen him in three years. Does that sound like stalking to you?” They remained silent, but exchanged a loaded glance. “We’re all adults now,” Harry added. “And I never once reached out to try to make things right. It’s passed time I did that.”

“But what do you want to apologize to _Malfoy_ for?” Ron asked in bewilderment, like he couldn’t imagine doing anything to Malfoy except punching him in the face.

Harry crossed his arms. “I wasn’t the nicest to him in school.”

Ron snorted. “What are you going on about, Harry? He was a git, not you.”

Harry grimaced at his friend. “Yes, Malfoy was a git, but I was too, okay?”

Ron shook his head, his face starting to turn the same color as his hair. “Are you mad?” he shouted. “He’s a spoiled brat, and as soon as daddy let him he became a Death Eater!”

“He was a kid!” Harry yelled back, and he almost couldn’t believe he was defending Malfoy of all people.

“We were all kids!” Ron retorted angrily, standing now. Hermione also stood, trying to keep some distance between them, but she was biting her lip in worry, not knowing how to deescalate the situation. “That doesn’t excuse what he called Hermione! Or how he treated my family! His dad nearly killed my sister!”

“He’s — ” Harry spluttered helplessly, “He’s changed now, Ron, I know he has.”

Ron grabbed his plate, shoving past Harry on his way to the sink. Once the plate was added to the set of self-washing dishes, he turned back to face Harry, slightly more composed. “You’re better than him, Harry,” he said, sounding disappointed. “You don’t have to apologize to him for anything.”

Immediately, Harry felt his muscles tense and his blood boil. “Yes, I do,” he growled, and both his friends flinched at the steel in his voice.

“Why?” Ron growled right back.

Harry was shouting before he knew what he was going to say. “Because I nearly killed him!”

The silence that followed was palpable. Hermione finally came over and rested a hand on Harry’s shoulder, but he shrugged it off. “Harry,” she tried, “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes, it was,” Harry whispered, feeling the shame wash over him. He forced himself to stand up straighter and look at Hermione. “And I need to apologize for that.”

Neither of them tried to stop him as he went out the front door.

* * *

Harry apparated into the side alley this time, so as not to cause a scene in the middle of a muggle street. He’d also opted for muggle clothing today. The air was less biting than it had been last week when he’d accidentally portkeyed here. He wondered if Malfoy would be working today, but he figured Dr. Finch would be kind enough to inform him of Malfoy’s work schedule.

Norwood Road was home to a number of quaint shops and restaurants, and Harry idly wondered which ones, if any, Malfoy visited. If he squinted into all the windows, would he see that white-blonde hair peeking over a shelf or from behind a menu?

He slowed as he reached the intricate green sign announcing The Dragon’s Lair, wondering how he should broach the subject with Malfoy. Should he just go up to him and start apologizing? Should he preface with an explanation or a joke? Harry examined the tiny dragons decorating the shop front’s sign. Maybe this wasn’t a great idea, after all.

Harry was just about to turn around and give up on the whole endeavor when the blonde himself stepped out of the bookstore, poised as usual. Malfoy nearly tripped over his feet however when he spotted Harry standing just a few meters away.

“Potter?” Malfoy questioned perplexedly. He brought a hand to smooth over his hair, as if a strand were out of place, and then elegantly placed both hands into his pockets. “Whatever are you doing here?”

Harry snapped back into himself, and took a step nearer to the other man. “Can I…speak with you?” he asked, not entirely sure where he was going with this.

Malfoy cocked his head to the side curiously before giving a brief nod and striding off down the street. Harry took that as a cue to follow him, and he jogged to catch up. Soon they were walking side by side down Norwood Road in silence. Eventually, Malfoy turned off down another street. Harry began to wonder if Malfoy was taking him back to his flat, or mansion — wherever he lived.

“I’m not taking you home, Potter, so you’d best spit it out,” Malfoy muttered, as if reading Harry’s mind.

“Oh,” Harry hastened to say, “I just wanted to let you know that – well, I wanted to apologize to you.”

Malfoy snorted, still managing to appear suave. “For what, stealing my £5?”

“Oh right!” Harry exclaimed, digging around his jacket pocket for his wallet. He pulled out £5 and gave it to Malfoy, who looked unwillingly amused.

“Apology accepted, I suppose,” Malfoy said graciously, and the money disappeared into his pocket.

Feeling emblazoned by those words, Harry continued, “Actually, not for that. I wanted to apologize for how I treated you at school.”

Malfoy stopped walking abruptly. Harry stopped a few paces further along and had to turn to face him.

“Just hear me out, Malfoy,” Harry plowed on, trying not to be intimidated by Malfoy’s silence. “I’ve been thinking about how I behaved and I regret not, you know, being nicer. I know I should’ve stopped you from making dark choices.”

Malfoy stared at him, unreadable. It was making Harry nervous.

“And – and it isn’t about _you_ really,” Harry babbled on, trying not to fidget. “It’s just, I realize that I wasn’t, er, making the best the choices either, when it came to you and the other Slytherins. So I just – I want to make things right, because….”

Malfoy waited, not moving; Harry couldn’t even see if he was breathing.

“Because,” he finished valiantly, “it’s the right thing to do.”

Harry forced himself not to keep talking, even as the dragging silence strained his patience. He kept meeting Malfoy’s dark gaze then glancing away, as if he might find an answer written there but was too embarrassed to look for long. A thousand ideas bubbled to the front of his mind about what to say, but Harry clamped his mouth shut, determined to let Malfoy have the next word. The blonde before him could be a statue but for the light breeze shifting the pale strands of his hair. Harry was biting his tongue, dying to ask what the other boy was thinking, when Malfoy suddenly raised an eyebrow, and just like that he was a living person again, chest rising and falling with each breath, posture shifting as he put his weight on one leg then the other.

“An interesting idea, Potter,” he said blandly, as if he was bored with this whole interaction. “I’m glad you feel better about yourself.”

Malfoy strode forward, breezing past Harry as he continued on his way.

“Malfoy!” Harry called after him, jogging to catch up again.

The blonde didn’t turn or acknowledge him in any way.

“ _Draco_ ,” Harry tried, “wait!”

Malfoy stiffened, stopping in his tracks and whirling on Harry. The glare Malfoy gave him could kill. “ _Potter_ ,” Malfoy emphasized, teeth grinding, “it’s cute that you barge into people’s lives expecting them to fawn all over you for existing, but I am not one of your fanatical groupies.”

Harry took a step back in shock. “Ma–Malfoy, I only — ”

“Shut up, Potter,” the other man growled, taking a menacing step towards him. “You show up at my work — in a muggle area, which you know means I’m trying to _distance_ myself from the wizarding community — and expect me to welcome you with open arms after your neat little apology that, in your own words, had nothing to do with _me_ , really. Kindly take yourself and your hero complex out of my life.”

Malfoy swiveled on his heel and marched off down the street. Harry knew better than to chase after him again, but he still felt the need to explain himself. This was going all wrong. “I didn’t mean it like that!” he shouted, hoping to get through to the Slytherin. “It _is_ about you!”

Malfoy rounded a corner, and Harry was left standing alone in the middle of the street.

“Of course it’s about you,” Harry muttered to the empty air, and then shook his head like that would rid his brain of stupidity. He hadn’t even apologized for the _sectumsempra_ incident. “That went well,” he sighed in frustration, and after a quick glance around to make sure he was alone, he apparated back to his flat.


	3. The Cheerful Intruder

It had been five days since Potter’s botched attempt at an apology, and Draco’s bad mood still hadn’t gone away. Not that he’d been counting. The sky was unobscured by clouds for once, and the sun hung lazily in the middle of it, warming the air. Children were playing tag around the legs of their mothers, and the mothers were chatting amongst themselves contentedly and bribing their kids with ice cream. Dog-walkers came in hoards.

Draco glared at the cheerfulness of it all, sitting on his usual park bench.

It had been stupid really, leading Potter along a path in the opposite direction from his flat. It wasn’t as if Potter was going to stalk him or something equally as ridiculous. In fact, there was no reason at all to be thinking about Potter now. Or wondering if he should walk along that path to make sure Potter wasn’t about to show up there and get lost again….

No. No more thinking about Potter. It was a waste of Draco’s time.

Draco returned his attention to the book he was reading. It was a fascinating read about shamans in different parts of Asia, and Draco wondered if anyone knew they were just wizards. How many witches and wizards shared their gifts with muggles and lived among them without contact with the wizarding world? Were they all like Draco, running away from the horrors of their pasts? Or did they simply prefer the company of muggles? Before the war, Draco would have scoffed at the possibility of preferring muggle company, but now he could understand the appeal. They were just people after all, just like witches and wizards but without magic. They were prejudiced about different things in its stead, like skin color and gender and sexuality, but at least they didn’t have insane nearly-immortal tyrants rise up every fifty years to try to take over the world.

But Draco didn’t chose to live with muggles simply because he wanted to. He had worked for that genocidal maniac, and every witch and wizard knew it. In the muggle world, he was just another person on the street. Not that he had broken off all ties with the wizarding world. He still stayed in touch with his mother, and Pansy, and Greg, and Blaise. And of course sometimes a bespectacled war hero would pop in on him uninvited.

Draco snapped his book shut, startling a few nearby pigeons, and got to his feet. All he wanted to do was find Potter and strangle him. Curse him for getting himself stuck in Draco’s head all week. He’d survived for three years Potter-free and now suddenly he’d encountered the man twice in less than a week. At least he wouldn’t be coming back, Draco had been quite clear about that. And yet, every time Draco’s thoughts drifted they landed on Harry bloody Potter!

The Dragon’s Lair always cleared his head. Draco strode out of the park with purpose, heading to his favorite bookstore. Maybe Dr. Finch would allow him to curl up on the tiny couch in the corner with a book and some warm cocoa. That was a plan he could get behind.

The walk was short and pleasant enough, though he could do without being almost run over by unapologetic cyclists. The moment the storefront’s sign came into view, Draco let the corners of his lips quirk up in a soft smile. He loved the the little green dragons decorating the sides, and the elegant curling font of the words. It always filled him with a sense of contentment and calm. It was turning out to be a fairly good day after all.

Draco entered the shop and froze, the door swinging closed behind him. There was a moment where Draco thought they hadn’t noticed him, and he could sneak out again without anyone the wiser. But then Dr. Finch glanced over at him and smiled, and Harry Potter turned towards him with a carefree grin on his idiotic face.

“Hey, Malfoy,” Potter said merrily.

Draco turned his inquiring gaze on Dr. Finch, trying to communicate his annoyance.

“Harry here was just asking where he could find you,” Dr. Finch said, either not noticing that Draco was upset with her or not caring. Knowing Dr. Finch, it was probably the latter.

“How wonderful,” Draco bit out, tempted to slam his book about shamans down on Dr. Finch’s desk. As it was, he just set it down gently. Even as furious as he felt, Draco was loathe to harm a book. Dr. Finch shot him a look over her reading glasses as if he had.

“So,” Potter said after a brief silence, “can I, er, have a word with you?”

“‘And but one word with one of us?’” Draco muttered. “‘Couple it with something; make it a word and a blow.’”

Dr. Finch glanced up at him in amusement, but made no comment at the quote from his favorite muggle play.

“Sorry?” The-Imbecile-Who-Lived asked, tilting his head to the side.

“Nothing, Potter,” Draco replied breezily. “Just some Shakespeare to lighten the mood.”

Potter continued to look perplexed, but smiled like he understood.

Draco rolled his eyes. Surely Potter must know about Shakespeare. Even Draco was aware of him before coming to the muggle world. He was one of many classical artists who had run ins with magical creatures and wizardkind. He’d written whole plays dedicated to the magical sights he’d seen. Either Potter really was that thick, or he hadn’t been paying any attention in Professor Binns' History of Magic classes. “Shall we?” he said, gesturing to the door.

The other boy’s face cleared of confusion as he cheerfully made for the exit. _If only it was always this easy to get him to leave._ Draco followed him out though it was tempting to just lock the door after him. He did throw a withering look back at Dr. Finch, who was unperturbed by his ire.

Out on the street, Potter stood waiting. “Where should we go this time?” he asked, ignoring Draco’s glare. “It’s a nice day out. Fancy a stroll in the park?”

Draco frowned, crossing his arms. “How do you know there’s a park? Have you been stalking me?” Maybe it hadn’t been stupid to lead Potter away from his home the other day after all.

Potter grinned sheepishly. “You gave me a map,” he said. “Remember?”

“Why are you smiling, Potter?” Draco grumbled, staring him down. If Draco was uncomfortable being around this man then damn him if he wasn’t going to try to make Potter uncomfortable too.

Predictably, the other man stopped. “Er,” he answered worriedly, “I just…am happy to see you?”

Draco raised an eyebrow.

Potter broke out into another sloppy grin. “You’re _great_ company.”

Now Draco knew he was being made fun of. Sighing dramatically, Draco turned and stalked down the street, with Potter following on his heels. He didn’t slow until they got to the park he had just been in, even though he kept wanting to check that Potter was still there and that he hadn’t gotten discouraged and stayed behind at the shops.

Not that Draco ever wanted Potter to follow him. Certainly not the last time they met and Draco had stormed off only to realize Potter hadn’t tried to chase after him and apologize again. That was preposterous. Draco had more self-respect than that.

“So what is it this time, Potter?” Draco interrogated once they were out of earshot of the nearest dog-walker. “Not another apology, I hope. Or are you trying to alert the wizarding world to where I live so I can be exploited by paparazzi?”

Potter chuckled at that. “No, to that last bit,” he said, sounding slightly nervous.

“And to the first bit?” Draco questioned darkly, voice and eyes like steel.

The other man’s eyes flitted toward him as they walked side by side, with a considerable gap between them. “Well,” he said awkwardly, “I was hoping to try again, if you’ll let me.”

“I won’t let you,” Draco replied instantly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw Potter’s face crack into a smile again.

“And would you stop smiling?” Draco demanded, annoyed when Potter just smiled wider. “It’s creepy.”

“I’ll stop smiling if you let me apologize,” Potter countered smugly, and Draco gritted his teeth.

“Fine, you uncouth gorilla,” Draco snapped, stopping in his tracks and turning to face the other man. “Sober up and apologize.”

Potter wiped his expression clean as he faced Draco, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Alright, well,” he started hesitantly, “I know I said things all wrong last time. So I’m sorry for that.” Potter paused and bit his lip.

“Is that all?” Draco asked coolly.

Potter met his eyes and hastily said, “No, no, there’s more.”

Draco waited, schooling his expression.

“I, er, don’t know how to….” Potter trailed off, letting the silence linger. “That time,” he resumed, more confidently, “when I saw you crying in the bathroom….”

Draco stiffened all over like someone had cast _petrificus totalus_ on him. The scars crisscrossing his torso tingled uncomfortably where his shirt brushed against them. Potter just had to bring that up, didn’t he? He had to bring it up, because he only ever thought about himself and never once about how Draco felt. It meant nothing to Potter, but everything to Draco. And the bastard thought he had the right to make Draco relive those memories? A shudder rippled through him as he remembered Snape’s face hovering over him, the usually blank features twisted with concern, muttering a song-like counter-spell as Draco’s blood fought to leave his body. And the _pain_ , like stripes of fire licking through his veins.

Oblivious, Potter rambled on, “…I didn’t know what that spell would do, Malfoy, I would never have done that to you on purpose — ”

“So I guess you’re blameless then?” Draco cut in flatly. His menacing tone rivaled that of Professor Snape’s.

Potter stammered to a stop, looking bewildered. “That’s not what I — ”

“I guess it was all my fault,” Draco went on. His fists clenched all on their own. He could still feel the way his wounds had glued themselves to his shirt with the damp, sticky blood that seeped between his fingers, impossible to keep in. “I’m responsible for almost bleeding out on the floor that day, I’m the one to blame for the scars on my chest.”

“ _No_ ,” Potter said vehemently, as if he cared. “That is _not_ true.”

“Is that all you’ve come to say?” Draco spat. For a moment, he thought a fog had descended, but when he blinked he realized it was just the moisture in his eyes. He scowled, hating the tears that threatened to fall. “That everything that happened to me was my own fault?”

Potter was shaking his head before Draco finished his question. “Malfoy,” he insisted, “I’m trying to tell you, that’s not what I meant.”

It wasn’t fair. Draco hadn’t asked for this. He’d done his time, he’d moved away to the muggle world to do something harmless, and this is what he got. Shame crept in and pressed down on him like the rotting hands of dementors. “Leave me alone, Potter,” he tried to growl, but it came out closer to a whimper. He turned back the way they’d come.

“Malfoy,” Potter said breathlessly, getting in Draco’s face and forcing him to stop. “I’m sorry, I don’t think it’s your fault. I swear I don’t.”

Draco frowned at him, trying to regain his composure. The stinging memory of pain was still present in the forefront of Draco’s mind, but it was fading. “You don’t,” Draco repeated.

“It was _my_ fault, Malfoy,” Potter affirmed, encouraged by Draco’s response. “And I’m more sorry than I can say.”

“But you said,” Draco began numbly, but Potter cut him off.

“I know,” Potter sighed. “That’s because I’m an idiot.”

Draco stared at him.

“Stupid Potter,” Stupid Potter said ruefully. “That’s the saying, right?”

It would have been weird to have a laugh with his once-nemesis, so Draco just sniffed haughtily. “It’s a nickname, not a saying.”

Potter shrugged like he couldn’t help himself. “Stupid Potter,” he repeated pointedly.

Draco barked a laugh in surprise, and of course that was all Potter needed to go back to grinning overzealously again.

“So does this mean you accept my apology?” he asked cockily.

“Absolutely not.”

“What? Why?” Potter gawked at him, looking just as uneducated and uncivilized as he really was.

Draco glared at him. “Did you even consider how bringing up the past might affect me?”

The truth dawned on his face slowly, like a sun rising over the horizon and pouring light across the landscape. Potter looked petrified. It was spectacular. “Oh Merlin, I didn’t realize – how can I – is there anything I can — ”

“Yes, there is something you could do,” Draco interrupted coldly. “You can leave me alone and never bother me again and live with the knowledge that I will never forgive you.”

Potter hesitated, looking torn. “But I just…wanted to make things right,” he said sadly.

“Well,” Draco said, voice like ice, “you failed.”

And Draco strode away, gratified that those were the last words he was ever going to say to Harry James Potter.


	4. The New Tactic

Those couldn’t be the last words Draco Malfoy ever said to him. They kept ringing in Harry’s ears, a chorus of “you failed” repeating over and over. What had he done wrong? Harry had been careful to make it more personal this time, more obviously about Malfoy and not about him. And maybe he’d screwed that up a bit, with bringing up things Malfoy didn’t want to think about, but then he’d apologized again and even made Malfoy laugh. For a while, it was almost like talking with a friend. Until Malfoy flat-out refused to accept Harry’s apology. Harry had to try again.

“Alright,” Hermione said, and Harry glanced up to see that she and Ron were both giving him meaningful looks from across the table. Ron had even set down his fork, so it had to be serious, although he was still chewing his previous bite of pork pie. “What is going on with you, Harry?” Hermione went on gently. “You’ve been spacing out the whole meal.”

“And you’ve barely touched your food,” Ron added, far more concerned with Harry’s appetite. Ron’s fingers twitched toward his fork, and it took an obvious effort to hold himself back.

Harry shrugged, not keen on telling them the subject of his preoccupation. Merlin, they’d just get on him for stalking Malfoy again, like this was even close to the same thing.

“Honestly Harry,” Hermione pressed, leaning her elbows on the table. “We’re worried about you.”

“You don’t have to worry,” Harry assured them quickly. “I’m fine.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “We’re your best friends, Harry. You can tell us anything.”

Anything except the fact that he’d been apparating into muggle London for the last week trying to catch a glimpse of blonde hair through a bookshop window while hiding under his invisibility cloak.

“There’s nothing to tell, Hermione,” Harry said. “I’m just…thinking about work.”

The internal battle raging inside Ron finally came to an end. His hand was around his fork before he even said, “See, he’s fine” to Hermione, and shoveling another bite of pie into his mouth.

Hermione gave him an annoyed glance.

“Really, Hermione,” Harry said, leaning forward and placing his hand on hers. She looked up and met his gaze, her warm brown eyes filled with concern. “I’m okay.”

After a moment, she sighed and nodded, patting his hand before they both leaned back in their seats to continue their dinner.

Harry hated lying to his friends. But they just wouldn’t understand what he was doing. They’d taken it badly the first time he’d brought up apologizing to Malfoy, and he doubted they’d take it much better this time after learning how pathetic his attempts were becoming.

Maybe he shouldn’t have teased Malfoy so much. The smiling had gotten on Malfoy’s nerves and that must’ve gotten them off to a poor start. Merlin, what an idiot he’d been. No wonder Malfoy had been upset with him. Next time, Harry would be somber, and take everything Malfoy said very seriously. That way Malfoy wouldn’t feel like Harry was making fun of him. He just had to wait until Malfoy cooled off. That exchange had been eight days ago. Was it too soon to confront him again? He looked well, every time Harry spotted him striding down the street like he owned it, and chatting with Dr. Finch over tea. Sometimes hot chocolate when it was a particularly miserable day out.

But even on those miserable days, Malfoy’s hair never seemed to be affected by wind — the most it ever did was appear stylishly mussed. His white-blonde hair was like a beacon on dreary days, like a lighthouse leading lost ships to safety. And on sunny days it rivaled the sun itself, a glow forming around his head like a halo. But Malfoy’s face, contrary to his perpetual glow, was almost always drawn, and tired, and sad. And maybe that was why Harry kept going back, thinking of ways to apologize, because he couldn’t stand to see that look on Malfoy’s face.

Fingers snapped inches from Harry’s nose, startling him from his thoughts. “Harry!” Hermione said crossly, snatching her hand back.

“What?” Harry asked, trying not to look too guilty.

Hermione sighed and crossed her arms, giving Ron a significant look. Taking that as his cue to take over the interrogation, Ron asked, “Mate, what’s really going on with you? You’ve been acting weird for the last couple weeks.”

Harry purposefully took a bite out of his pie. “Nothing,” he said while chewing.

Hermione raised her eyebrows at him. “Harry, is this about Malfoy?”

Harry choked. Ron had the grace to lean over and pat his back until Harry could regain his breath, but Hermione sat back with a stern expression as Harry spluttered for a response. “What? Why would you – who said anything about – I never even — ”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Harry,” Hermione interrupted. “You’re not being very subtle about it.”

That earned a glare from Harry as he clamped his mouth shut over any more embarrassing babbling.

“Well,” Ron said hesitantly. “Is it?”

They were both staring at him determinedly and Harry frowned. “You two aren’t going to let this go, are you?”

Hermione pursed her lips and Ron gave a half-shrug, but neither of them spoke.

“Fine,” Harry sighed dramatically. “I’ve been…seeing Malfoy — ”

Ron blurted out a surprised “Blimey!” before he and Hermione exchanged a knowing look.

“I knew you wouldn’t understand,” Harry sighed, resting his chin in his hands. “But he’s _different_ now. He’s not the same brat we knew in school.”

Hermione very visibly elbowed Ron, and he immediately sat up straighter and addressed Harry with an air of caution. “Harry, mate, no matter what, we support you,” he started, glancing at Hermione who nodded encouragingly. “And, er, it doesn’t matter to us who you…prefer. We’ll always be here for you.” His face screwed up into a somewhat pained smile.

Harry stared at them, perplexed. “What are you on about?”

“Oh Harry,” Hermione said gently, a kind smile on her face. “We love you. That will never change.”

“Thanks,” Harry said slowly, starting to doubt their sanity.

“It had to be _Malfoy_ , though?” Ron blurted suddenly. “Of all the blokes — ”

Hermione smacked his arm. “Ron!” she stressed, as if reminding him of a promise.

“But Hermione,” Ron argued, like he couldn’t stay quiet for the life of him, “there’s plenty of fit blokes for Harry to shag that aren’t ex-Death Eaters — ”

Harry balked. “What?” he said, quite a bit louder than necessary.

Hermione’s eyes went wide. “No, Harry, it doesn’t matter, we don’t care that you’re dating Draco, we’re still your friends!”

“I,” said Harry feeling far more flustered than he’d ever felt in his life, “am not _shagging_ Draco _Malfoy_!”

Several witches at a nearby table glanced over with shocked expressions and then burst into giggles. Harry blushed terribly, and lowered his voice to a strained whisper. “What on earth made you think that?”

Hermione looked mortified, though considering what had just transpired Harry felt he was the only one there who should be feeling that way. “But you said,” she began timidly, “you were… _seeing_ him….”

“I – I _went_ to see him,” Harry spluttered with urgency, “to _apologize_ to him, like I told you I was going to, and then I went to see him _again_ to apologize again, so I was – _seeing_ him, you know, _around_ , and – why would you even go there — ”

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” Hermione gushed, looking positively horrified. “I just thought you meant — ”

“Why would you _think_ that?” Harry said in bewilderment, desperately trying to keep his voice at a whisper. “ _Malfoy_?”

“Well, who else!” Hermione cried, throwing up her arms.

Harry blinked. “Who else?” he said, gaping. “ _Any_ one!”

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Hermione sighed, hiding her face in her hands.

There was a moment where no one spoke and Harry felt desperately uncomfortable. He definitely was _not_ thinking about Malfoy and what if they _were_ dating, and what if they were _shagging_ , and how would Malfoy’s hair look then, as wildly unkempt as Harry’s and incredibly sexy —

“Well, that’s a relief,” Ron muttered into the tense silence, and all three of them busted out laughing despite themselves.

“Honestly, Ron,” Hermione admonished, giggling uncontrollably, “it’s not funny.”

“Are you kidding?” he said in astonishment, “Harry fancying _Malfoy_? That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard!”

Harry’s mirth vanished rather abruptly but he forced himself to keep laughing until his friends were catching their breaths. There was no reason to be upset. He wasn’t upset.

“I mean,” Hermione said suddenly, and Harry looked up to see her worried expression was back in place, “it really isn’t that funny. If you say he’s changed, Harry, we believe you.”

Harry made sure he was still smiling. “He has.”

“Alright,” Hermione agreed hastily, giving him a nervous smile in return.

“Well,” Ron said casually, as if they weren’t discussing his least favorite person in the world. “You apologized then. How did it go?”

Harry narrowed his eyes at them, but they both just waited for him to answer, so Harry assumed they must have discussed being more careful about the topic of Malfoy around him. “I did. It went…about as bad as is to be expected.”

“I knew it!” Ron crowed, earning some stares from the other customers. “That slimy git, what did he say — ow!” He abruptly turned to Hermione to give her a sour look and it was clear that Hermione had kicked him under the table.

“It wasn’t his fault,” Harry said, but it came out more defensive than he meant it.

“Of course it wasn’t, Harry,” Hermione assured him quickly. “What happened?”

“I’m really bad at apologizing,” he mumbled.

Hermione snorted.

Harry frowned at her. “What?”

“Oh nothing,” she muttered and immediately picked up her water and started sipping at it.

“So I apologized again,” Harry went on cautiously, “but he keeps getting pissed that I’m apologizing at all.”

Hermione set down her drink. “I thought you were planning on apologizing to _all_ of the Slytherins, Harry?”

Ron had begun desperately scraping at his plate with his fork so as not to let any food go to waste, and the scratching was getting on Harry’s nerves. Hermione waved her wand without looking away from Harry, and the sound was instantly muted.

“I am,” Harry replied honestly, “but I haven’t gotten Malfoy to accept my apology yet.”

Hermione sighed and smacked Ron’s arm as he tried to reach his fork over to her plate. “Maybe you should move on to some of the others and try again with Malfoy after you’ve given him some space,” she suggested. “I’m sure he’d feel less pressured if he saw you were sincere about it, and that you care enough to make amends with his friends.”

Harry stared at her, mouth hanging open. “Oh Hermione, you’re brilliant!” he cried, leaping up from his seat and leaning across the table to give her a sort of half-hug.

Hermione returned it with a startled but pleased smile.

“I’ll see you two later,” Harry said, giving Ron a clap on the back. “I have an idea.”


	5. The Potter Problem

“It _is_ rather pathetic,” Pansy allowed, daintily sipping from her teacup. Tiny blue-painted birds flew across the ceramic as she set it down. “But sweet, too.”

“Sweet?” Draco repeated incredulously. “Nothing about Potter’s unstable and self-centered behaviors is sweet, Pansy.” He’d yet to take a drink of his tea, but kept swirling the spoon around in the liquid lazily with a twirl of his finger. Pansy always prepared it with more sugar than Draco preferred, and he wasn’t keen on tasting it.

“Well, judging by what you yelled at him — ”

“I hardly yelled,” Draco scoffed, but she continued as if he hadn’t spoken.

“He probably won’t try again.”

Draco gave her a dark look. “You underestimate his stupidity.”

Pansy sniffed haughtily, tucking her legs under herself on the sofa. “I think you mean stubbornness. And if that’s a quality you dislike so much, I’m surprised you lasted a day in Slytherin.”

“No,” Draco insisted grumpily, “I mean stupidity. Even you don’t bother me when I’m really pissed about something.”

“I never _bother_ you,” Pansy contradicted, looking enormously bored. “My presence is a gift.”

“Your presence is a curse, Pansy,” Draco informed her with a long sigh. “We all just suffer through it.”

“My girlfriend is not a curse, Draco,” an admonishing voice said from the doorway. Draco rolled his eyes as Lavender Brown sauntered in to take a seat practically on Pansy’s lap.

“It’s good to see you, Lavender,” Draco said politely, absentmindedly taking a sip of his tea and frowning at the sweetness of it.

Lavender snorted in response and Pansy beamed at her, leaning over to give her a peck on her cheek, right on one of her scars. The left side of Lavender’s face and neck were marred with three deep gashes, the longest of which went from the top of her scalp to the edge of her collar bone. Long since healed, they stood out as shiny pink reminders of a time before, when the Dark Lord and his followers were terrorizing Hogwarts. Lavender wasn’t ashamed of her scars; she showed them off like medals. She’d shaved half her head to make them more visible and Draco had to admit that the undercut suited her. Pansy was head over heels for her little werewolf war hero. She had even mastered the wolfsbane potion, even though Pansy hated potion-making.

“Still discussing Harry, are we?” Lavender ventured, taking Pansy’s hand in her own and twining their fingers together.

“What else?” Pansy muttered. She laid her head on Lavender’s shoulder adoringly.

“Actually no, we’re done discussing that prat,” Draco said sulkily, as Lavender carded her fingers through Pansy’s long black hair. Potter’s hair was just as dark but far more messy. Draco wondered how it might feel to card his fingers through it. “He’s just a momentary nuisance, and I’m wasting no more time on him.”

Pansy closed her eyes and leaned into Lavender’s touch. Would Potter look like that if Draco stroked his hair, thick eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, and a soft smile gracing his lips?

“And I’m sure you’re not daydreaming about him right now, are you?” Lavender teased lightly.

Draco blushed, and desperately tried to hide that fact by drinking more tea, forgetting how much he disliked the taste. “I don’t know what you mean,” Draco replied curtly as he set his cup down.

“Oh, don’t tease him, Lav,” Pansy chided, looking up at her girlfriend. Thank Merlin Pansy was there to save him. Draco could kiss her for her mercy. “He hasn’t figured it out yet,” she whispered loudly.

The two girls smirked at each other, and Draco frowned. “Figured what out?”

Lavender opened her mouth to respond, but Pansy elbowed her lightly in the side. “Nothing, dear,” she told him with a twinkle in her eye. “Now what’s your plan if Potter comes back to plague you with apologies?”

Draco groaned, leaning back in his seat and burying his face in his hands. “Hex him?” he suggested.

“How about,” Pansy countered slyly, “you invite him for drinks?”

Draco dropped his hands to stare at her. “Pardon?”

Pansy shrugged delicately. “Couldn’t hurt.”

Rolling his eyes, Draco tried not to think about the look Potter would give him if he did ask. Probably utter bewilderment — though that was his usual expression. Or maybe one of his beaming smiles. The thought made Draco feel oddly warm. “That would only encourage him,” Draco denied.

“He doesn’t seem to need much encouragement,” Pansy said, smirking.

Before Draco could respond to that, Lavender sat up straight and groused, “We’re out of red wine, Pans, we need to get more.”

Pansy rolled her eyes as she pulled Lavender back down to her side. “You’re such a princess.” Pansy pressed her lips to Lavender’s cheek, where the worst of her scarring was. “We’ll get it later.”

“We better,” Lavender warned, and she leaned over to nip at Pansy’s ear.

“I’ll see myself out then, shall I?” Draco offered, standing. He felt vastly relieved he wouldn’t have to choke down the rest of Pansy’s tea.

“Do,” Lavender told him as she slid deftly onto Pansy’s lap.

“Draco,” Pansy called, stalling Lavender with a hand on her shoulder. “Just so you know, I wouldn’t mind if you changed how you felt about Potter. He’s not that bad.”

“He’s _Potter_ ,” Draco said incredulously. “He’s _terrible_.”

Pansy sighed. “I don’t really have a problem with him actually.”

“Well I _do_ ,” Draco snapped huffily, and made his way to the front door.

“Of course you do, darling,” Pansy laughed out, then squealed as Lavender presumably took her by surprise.

He shut the door of Pansy’s flat firmly behind him. It was improper to disapparate from someone’s doorstep, so Draco made his way to the stairwell before apparating to an alleyway near The Dragon’s Lair.

Bloody Potter. With his stupid bloody scar, and his ridiculously unkempt hair, and his bloody awful glasses. What a prat. Always expecting everything in life to be handed to him, even forgiveness. It was such bullocks.

No, Draco wasn’t going to waste his time thinking about Potter. He was going to have a nice, quiet day in the bookstore, organizing the philosophy section and seeking out the next fascinating muggle text to read. It was a drizzly day out so the bookstore would feel especially cozy.

He greeted Dr. Finch briefly as he entered the store, and went immediately to the back left corner to sort through books. Dr. Finch had wanted to re-organize them to reflect subsections of content, so not only were all philosophy books together, but asian philosophy books were together, and books that dealt with philosophy of religion or spirituality went together, and so on. Lastly, within these groups they had to be sorted alphabetically. So far, Draco had organized about half the store. He wasn’t in a hurry though, and neither was Dr. Finch. He enjoyed the task of looking through the books, and wasn’t keen on running out of things to do in the bookstore.

He was just gathering titles on animism when the front door rang with a customer. _Damn it_ , Draco thought. _It better not be Potter_.

“Draco,” Dr. Finch called after a moment, and his stomach dropped. “Could you help this young man find what he’s looking for?”

Apprehensively, Draco strode to the front desk, expecting to see Potter’s infuriating smile.

“Hi,” said a man who was most definitely not Potter. “I’m Connor.”

“Hello,” replied Draco, feeling slightly dumbstruck. Connor was _fit_ , all lean muscles and obvious abs under his thin grey t-shirt. He had curly golden-brown locks that fell to his shoulders, and made Draco’s hair look pale and dank in comparison. His warm brown eyes shone brightly in the dim shop, and Draco couldn’t look away for the life of him. “You’re American?” he asked, trying desperately to sound normal.

Connor grinned, and — Merlin’s _beard_ — he had dimples. “California, born and bred.”

“I’m Draco,” Draco added quickly, flustered.

Connor held out a sun-tanned hand, and Draco took it, relishing in how warm Connor’s skin was. “Nice to meet you,” he said with a wink. If he was surprised at Draco’s name, he didn’t show it.

Draco let go of Connor’s hand and swallowed dryly. “What were you looking for?” he asked, remembering he had a job to do. He glanced guiltily at Dr. Finch, but she was studiously ignoring them in favor or examining a text on Latin poetry, a small smirk on her face.

“A good classic, I guess,” Connor said with a shrug. His voice was low and smooth, and it was doing things to Draco’s stomach. “I’m open to suggestions,” he added, with a grin at Draco.

“What genre would you prefer?” Draco asked, turning to lead him to the fiction section of the store.

“Um, I like anything,” he answered casually. Draco glanced over his shoulder to see Connor running his fingers over the spines of the books, just as Draco loved to do. It made him smile fondly.

“Adventure?” Draco suggested as he halted before the classics section. “Historical? Science fiction? Romance?”

“Romance, huh?” Connor murmured from right behind Draco, and Draco spun around to be face to face with the dashing Californian.

“The best classics have romance in them, in my opinion,” Draco told him, struggling to keep his voice and breathing steady. His heartbeat was a lost cause.

“I could do with a romance,” Connor said quietly, then stepped back to give Draco space. “What’s your pick?”

Draco refused to look as off-balance as he felt, but it was difficult with those entrancing brown eyes staring at him like nothing else existed in the world. “That depends if you want a happy or sad ending.”

“Give me a happy ending,” Connor said seductively, and Draco almost stumbled over his words as he agreed.

After a moment of searching, Draco pulled out _Pride and Prejudice_ and handed it over.

Connor turned his gaze to the cover, before looking appraisingly at Draco again. “Is this your favorite?”

Draco blushed, though he really shouldn’t have. “One of them.”

Connor grinned, leaning against a bookshelf. “Why’s that?”

Draco let himself smile back. There was nothing wrong with being charmed by a very forward customer. “I relate to the rude British man who is really just looking out for his friends.”

“Are you rude?” Connor asked, winking subtly again.

“Worse than Professor Snape,” Draco drawled, leaning against the opposite bookshelf.

Connor gave him a bemused look. “Who?”

_Oh shit_. Draco cleared his throat awkwardly, standing up straight. “Fictional character,” he fibbed hastily. “Shall we?” he asked, already walking away to the front.

Only slightly panicked, Draco skittered back to Dr. Finch, and gestured that Connor was her problem now, but before he could turn tail and flee from this mess of a situation, Connor stopped him with a light touch on his elbow. Swallowing, Draco faced him again.

“Thanks for this,” Connor said with his dimpled grin, placing the romance novel on the desk for Dr. Finch to ring up. “And, maybe,” he went on, plucking one of the bookstore’s business cards and a pen off the desk and scribbling something on the back of it, “you could call me.” He handed Draco the card, making sure their fingers brushed. “I’m here a few weeks, it’d be nice to have a local guide. If you’re up to it.”

Draco flipped the card over. It was presumably Connor’s number, and Draco blushed thinking how a few years ago he wouldn’t have known how to operate a telephone. “I’ll check my schedule,” Draco replied, giving Connor a wink of his own.

The bell on the door clanged as someone barged into the shop, and a cheery voice panted “Malfoy!”

Draco groaned and broke off his stare with the gorgeous Connor to glare at the horrible Potter. “What now, you prat?” he growled, supremely embarrassed that Connor had to witness this scene.

To his surprise, Connor barked out a laugh — and Merlin, if that wasn’t the most beautiful sound in the world. “You really _are_ a rude Englishman,” he remarked jovially, and Draco had to grin back.

“I told you,” he snarked.

“He isn’t rude,” Potter said stupidly, and Draco turned to see him frowning at Connor.

Connor, bless him, let that slide, and having paid for his book, brushed past Potter without looking at him. “See you later, Draco,” he farewelled, shooting Draco his famous grin before exiting the shop.

“What an arse,” Potter commented, stepping further into the shop.

Draco rolled his eyes and turned to give a pleading look to Dr. Finch, a look that said “Please make him leave.”

Dr. Finch smiled back with what would have been a sympathetic expression if not for the mischievous glint in her eye. “Harry,” she greeted, “I’m certainly glad to see you again.”

“And you as well,” Potter replied cheerfully. He then turned to Draco with a determined expression. “Malfoy,” he started, “I need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, not the ships you signed up for - don't worry, it's still drarry! Next chapter is all drarry ;)


	6. The Professional Apologist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is like ten times longer than I intended oops enjoy

“Whatever it is, you’re on your own,” Draco snapped.

Potter bit his lip, not that Draco really noticed. “I’d really like your help,” he tried again.

“No.” Draco crossed his arms, standing his ground.

Dr. Finch piped up, “Is it a book you need, dear? Draco knows the store as well as I do.”

Draco glared at Dr. Finch, who was all too happy to betray him. Potter shook his head at her suggestion, then paused and said, as if struck with an idea, “Yes, actually. Could you help me find it, _Draco_?”

Grinding his teeth, Draco bit out, “What sort of book?”

“Er,” Potter stalled, and it was written all over his face that he was struggling to think of any muggle topic that might be in a book. “Something on… medicine?”

Giving Dr. Finch a withering look, Draco turned and stomped over to the second row of shelves, Potter following along behind him. “This is the section on health. I trust you can browse on your own.” Draco made to leave, but Potter blocked his path.

“I lied,” Potter admitted in an undertone, so that Dr. Finch couldn’t hear. “I don’t need a book.”

Draco struggled not to roll his eyes at the obvious statement. “Then why are you bothering me at work again, Potter?” he growled instead. “I thought I made myself clear.”

“You did,” Potter agreed quickly. “You did, Draco.”

Draco bristled at the use of his first name, but there was something undeniably captivating about how those syllables sounded coming from Potter’s mouth. It was intimate in a way that Potter and Draco weren’t supposed to be.

“Which is why,” Potter went on obliviously, “I’m _not_ here to apologize to you.”

There was a beat where Potter looked expectantly at Draco, as if awaiting applause.

“Then _why are you here_ , Potter?” Draco reiterated in annoyance. He wished Potter could’ve stayed away, and not cut short his encounter with that attractive American. Connor. It was such a lovely name, Connor. He looked forward to saying it more.

“Well,” Potter said, ducking his head a bit and running a hand through his incurably disheveled hair, “I was hoping you could introduce me to Goyle — Gregory Goyle, that is.”

Draco’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You want me to introduce you to Greg?” he echoed slowly. Of all the things Potter could have said, this was the last thing Draco had expected.

Potter smiled big, and Draco scowled at him. “Yes,” Potter confirmed. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

“You already know Greg,” Draco pointed out.

“Not very well,” Potter said helplessly.

Draco narrowed his eyes at the offending man. “And _why_ do you want to see Greg?”

A rueful smile appeared on Potter’s horrible face. “Guess?” he offered sheepishly.

For a moment, nothing came to mind — except for a harrowing image of Potter and Greg snogging passionately, which was hurriedly dismissed — and then Draco remembered Potter’s whole _make-things-right_ mission. “No,” Draco said, standing his ground. “Not him too.”

Potter shrugged like he couldn’t help his hero complex.

“Why do you need _me_?” Draco demanded with a suspicious frown. Surely Potter could use his auror status to find out where Greg lived. In fact, he could probably find out where Draco lived as well. The thought made Draco nervous. There were plenty of people who still wanted Draco dead for his part in the war, and if Potter could find him out then it wouldn’t be hard for others to do the same.

“It might be weird to just show up and apologize,” Potter explained.

Draco gawked at him. “Do you hear yourself, Potter?” he asked incredulously. “That’s precisely what you did to me!”

“Well, I know you better than Goy – Gregory,” Potter reasoned. “We’ve talked.”

“Are you mad?” Draco exploded. “Potter, I don’t think we’ve ever had a one-on-one conversation — excluding brief exchanges during fights — before you popped up last month.”

Potter frowned in thought. “That’s not true,” he muttered. “We’ve talked before….”

“We really haven’t,” Draco told him earnestly, and nearly said “Harry” at the end of that, but snapped his mouth shut just in time.

Without warning, Potter shouted, “Oh!” and Draco had to catch himself before he stumbled back into the shelves. “We were eleven years old in Madam Malkin’s robe shop! It was the first time we met.”

Potter was grinning like he won the lottery, and Draco froze as he remembered exactly what Potter was referring to. The timid boy he was bragging to while he was being fitted for his first set of Hogwarts robes. He’d been thrilled because father had let him go alone for once, and he felt so mature and confident. Harry Potter was the first boy his age he’d run into on that excursion before he’d met up with Blaise and Pansy, and he was so eager to impress him. He hadn’t even known who he was until later. Looking back, it was obvious that Draco had behaved like a spoiled brat, but at the time, he’d thought that was how to make friends. And yet Harry Potter had rejected him. It was a surprise to find that the sting of that rejection was just as painful now as it had been then.

“Do you remember?” Potter asked, and Draco snapped to the present. Potter was grinning as if he wasn’t remembering how Draco had insulted his friend Hagrid and shown what a racist git he was in their very first encounter.

“That hardly counts,” Draco muttered at last. “You barely said a word.”

Harry snorted — no, _Potter_ , Potter not Harry — and said, “Well, you were pretty busy talking about yourself.”

Draco scoffed, and rolled his eyes, but didn’t deny it.

“So,” Har–Potter ventured, “will you introduce us?”

Draco narrowed his eyes at Potter’s expectant face. “If I do,” he started cautiously, “will you leave me alone — for real this time?”

Harry’s smile drooped a bit. “Yeah, sure,” he agreed. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” Draco insisted. It felt important to make that clear. Probably because Draco’s face was undoubtedly betraying him and looking wistful. He had no reason to want Potter to stick around. That was absurd.

“Alright then,” Potter said, perking up. “Shall we go?”

Draco startled. “Right now?”

Harry looked around the empty store pointedly. “Are you busy?”

“Fine,” Draco grumbled, glaring at him again. “Wait for me outside. I have to tell Dr. Finch that I’m taking a _short_ break.” Draco made sure to emphasize the word ‘short’ so that his nemesis wouldn’t mistake this for an all-day excursion.

Harry — _Potter_ — nodded happily and ambled over to the door, waving briefly at Dr. Finch before stepping into the drizzle.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Draco told Dr. Finch apologetically as he approached. “I have to get rid of this maniac.”

Dr. Finch lifted her gaze from her Latin text and studied his face. “Take the day off, dear,” she said. “You needn’t be overhasty.”

Draco shook his head adamantly. “No, I’m coming back, I most certainly am not wasting my day with that abominable wiz— _person_.” Two slip-ups in one day. What a disaster.

Dr. Finch smiled gently as she returned her attention to her book. “Take your time,” she insisted.

Heaving a great sigh, Draco turned to the entrance of the shop and braced himself to deal with Harry Potter. The drizzle had petered out, to Draco’s relief, but the air was still chilly, and Draco crossed his arms to keep warm. Potter was standing to the side of the door, and he grinned at Draco as he stepped up beside him.

“Where to?” Potter prompted as Draco simply frowned in Potter’s direction.

“You have to promise to leave Greg alone if he doesn’t want to talk to you,” Draco warned him.

Potter held up his hands in mock defense. “I promise.”

“No, I’m serious,” Draco insisted, “you can’t go bothering him if he, say, doesn’t accept your dumb apology, alright?”

Potter raised his eyebrows at Draco’s no-nonsense tone. “Alright,” he agreed amiably.

“No stalking,” Draco clarified, because it would be just like Potter to not understand simple instructions.

“I’m not going to stalk Goyle!” Potter cried, as if the concept were ludicrous.

Draco gave Harry a stern look. “You are rather prone to stalking,” he intoned, but Potter just rolled his eyes.

“I get it, no stalking Gregory Goyle,” he repeated dutifully. “Now can we go see him?”

The pleading look Potter gave him, which made his green eyes seem that much more prominent in his face, was not at all what swayed Draco to turn and lead him down the road. It was simply because he’d made his point and didn’t fancy standing still in the cold any longer. Nothing Harry Potter did could persuade Draco to do anything. Not even batting those sinfully thick lashes.

Shaking his head to clear it of those unhelpful thoughts, Draco pulled Harry into his usual side alley, and disapparated them without giving Potter a word of warning. It was only fair that Potter felt as unbalanced as Draco did, after all.

“Bloody hell, Malfoy,” Potter gasped as they appeared on a crowded street in Hogsmeade, and Draco was stupidly pleased that he’d startled Potter into both swearing and using his last name again. (He briefly wondered what other ways he could startle Potter but cut short that train of thought as it inevitably lead to snogging and more enthusiastic activities.)

“Are we in Hogsmeade?” Potter asked in surprise, but Draco didn’t bother stating the obvious, even for someone as clueless as the savior of the wizarding world. “He lives in the Three Broomsticks?” Potter went on as Draco led him to the familiar inn.

“Yes,” Draco answered, though it pained him to say such easily deduced facts aloud. “Greg lives and works in the Three Broomsticks.”

Potter quickened his pace so that he was walking beside Draco. “Why?” he asked, scrunching up his face like he was trying to figure out the meaning of life.

Draco rolled his eyes, a terrible habit that was only exacerbated by his proximity to Potter. “Because Greg was never an ambitious soul, and he always had an enormous crush on Rosmerta. It’s a wonder he was in Slytherin, the great oaf is more of a Hufflepuff than anything.”

Potter glanced his way with a frown. “You shouldn’t underestimate Hufflepuffs,” he started defensively.

Draco stopped in his tracks to face Potter, crossing his arms again. “How dare you assume I’m insulting my friend,” he snapped, as Potter stared at him in bewilderment. “I say he should’ve been in Hufflepuff because he’s as loyal as they come, and he isn’t opposed to hard work. Slytherin is for those ambitious and cunning enough to avoid ever working harder than absolutely necessary. Even in our friendships.” Draco shifted on his feet, suddenly uneasy with Potter’s all-too-knowing gaze. “And he deserved better than us.”

Potter looked down at his shoes for a moment, and then, as if that gave him courage, he returned Draco’s stare and said, “If there’s anything I remember of Gregory from school, it’s that he was always at your side, for better or for worse. You don’t stick by someone like that if you don’t feel like they want you there. He knows you valued him.”

Draco stared at Harry for a long moment. That was not the sort of insightful comment he expected to come from Potter’s mouth. He hadn’t even realized Harry had noticed Greg at all in school. It wasn’t like they’d even spoken to each other before. But there was something in Harry’s eyes now that was far too understanding of Draco’s insecurities, and Draco had to break eye contact with him and resume their walk to the pub.

“Greg doesn’t like surprises, I should warn you,” Draco said, eager to change the subject.

“Oh,” Potter replied, matching his pace. “Thanks for the heads up.”

Glancing over, Draco registered that Potter was grinning and resisted the urge to grin back, instead opting for a bored and slightly disgruntled grimace.

When they entered, Rosmerta was behind the counter, serving a very old man in bedraggled clothing. Draco went up to greet her, and Rosmerta beamed as she caught sight of him.

“Dray, what a treat!” she hollered, in case anyone missed his entrance. “What brings you here today, darling?”

“An old friend,” Draco told her wryly, kissing her cheek as he reached her. “You won’t believe this one, Ros, stick around for the show.”

Rosmerta gave him a stern look, completely ignoring his famous companion, which made Draco even more fond of her. “You’re not going to cause a scene in my pub, are you, Draco?”

“I’d never,” Draco promised solemnly, then nodded to Potter who was standing awkwardly at his side. “But _he_ might.”

Rosmerta finally turned her assessing gaze on Harry, making him squirm as he stood there sheepishly. “It’s good to see you again, Madam Rosmerta,” he muttered, barely meeting her eyes.

“You better not cause any trouble, Mr. Potter,” she told him coolly, and Draco started to wonder if she and Potter had a history of some sort. “I don’t want anyone upsetting my patrons.”

Harry visibly looked around in disbelief, taking in the two customers present. “I’ll try not to, Madam Rosmerta.”

“Do you mind if I fetch Greg from wherever he’s working?” Draco cut in, hoping to warn his friend before the inevitable Potter onslaught.

“Of course, he’s just in the storeroom,” Ros told him, shooing him away with a flick of her wrist while keeping her eyes locked on the Boy Who Lived.

Harry — no, no, for Merlin’s sake, _Potter_ — gave Draco a pleading look with his über green eyes, which Draco promptly turned his back on and headed off to find Greg. The storeroom was just behind the bar through an open doorway, and Draco only had to walk past a couple aisles of stacked crates of different types of whiskey and butterbeer before he spotted his loyal friend. Greg was facing the other way and bent over, shirt riding up as he sifted through one of the crates, giving Draco an unobstructed view of an area of Greg that Draco never wanted an unobstructed view of.

“Greg,” Draco announced, and his friend jumped, straightening up to face him. “I’m sorry to bother you at work.”

Greg gave Draco one of his big sloppy grins that reminded Draco of a Labrador Retriever, and launched himself over to crush Draco in one of his signature hugs. They hadn’t ever hugged in their school days, but once the war had ended, Greg had gotten particularly fond of touch. Draco wasn’t complaining; Greg’s hugs were the most comforting he’d ever experienced — not that he had much to compare to. “It’s not a bother,” Greg said in his gruff voice.

“Hey,” Draco continued as Greg let him go. “I have bad news.”

Greg visibly stiffened, panic setting into his face — although to be fair to Greg, every emotion he felt was visible in every line of his body.

“Harry Potter is here to see you,” Draco hastened to say, not wanting Greg to unduly worry.

Greg’s eyebrows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline. “To see _me_?” he repeated dumbly.

“Yeah, Greg,” Draco confirmed apologetically. “He’s being real stubborn about it.”

Greg made a constipated face. “Are you sure?”

Draco nodded patiently. He always had excess patience for Greg — and Vince, when he’d been around. It was still hard to see Greg without Vince there too. They’d been inseparable, like twins, and Draco knew Vincent’s death must’ve hit Greg harder than anyone, but Draco still avoided him when he could. It was selfish, and unfair to Greg after how good a friend he’d proven to be all these years, but Draco couldn’t bring himself to face that loss yet. Even three and a half years later, Vince’s dying scream as he fell into the fiendfyre still haunted him. Looking at Greg just brought back those last terrifying moments in the Room of Requirement, sweat dripping down Draco’s neck, the realization that they were going to be burned alive settling into his bones.

And then Harry Potter had come back and saved him. He could still feel Harry’s back against his own heaving chest, Draco’s thighs pressed tight to Harry’s own, the warm skin of Harry’s neck as Draco hid his face in it, thinking any second would be their last.

And Ronald Weasley had saved Greg, which Draco was endlessly grateful for, though he would never for the life of him admit that to the arrogant ginger.

“You’re sure he’s not here for you?” Greg checked, and Draco blinked out of his reverie.

“Why would Potter be here for me?” Draco countered, bemused. “I don’t work here, you do.”

Greg shrugged his beefy shoulders, apparently unable to back up his assumption, and turned back to his task. “I’ll be out in a minute, I just have to finish sorting through this firewhiskey. Some of these bottles are expired, and Ros says we can’t serve those.”

Draco smiled fondly at Greg’s unsubtle infatuation with the landlady, and headed back out to the front. Just as he was about to rejoin Potter and Rosmerta, he heard his name mentioned, and out of habit he hung back out of sight to listen.

“But,” Potter was saying in a whisper, “he… _imperio_ ed you. How are you friends now?”

The earnest question made Draco cold all over. He never liked to dwell on his past, and that was one of his worst memories, partly because it had been his first real act of evil. That stunt had nearly caused the death of a Gryffindor girl and the wrath of the Dark Lord. Of course Potter would conveniently bring that up.

“Draco has apologized a multitude of times to me and explained his situation,” Rosmerta instantly dismissed. “And he’s awfully polite, unlike most boys his age.”

“So…” Potter ventured in clear bewilderment, “You just forgave him? Just like that? You’re not mad?”

“Holding grudges is for children, Mr. Potter,” Ros stated firmly. “I hope you’ll learn that one day.”

“No, I know,” Potter amended hastily. “I just… don’t get why he can be forgiven but I can’t.”

There was a pause where Rosmerta was undoubtedly deciding whether or not to impart some bit of wisdom. “Harry,” she finally said, “it’s not about what was done, but about how much you regret having done it.”

“But I do regret it, Rosmerta,” Harry stressed, sounding almost desperate.

“Then you have to make sure he knows that.”

Draco couldn’t listen to anymore of this, so he loudly stomped over to them. Rosmerta was unflappable as usual but Harry started guiltily, and tried to pretend they had been discussing various weather patterns. “Greg will be out in a moment,” Draco informed him curtly.

Rosmerta strolled over to the other end of the bar to clean some glasses, waiting for the late afternoon crowd to filter in, and leaving Draco alone with a very awkward Harry Potter. The silence felt like an itch at the back of Draco’s throat, but before he could think of anything to say, Greg came ambling over to them, and Harry turned his disconcerting grin on the unsuspecting Greg.

“What’s wrong with _you_?” Greg demanded bluntly without preamble, and Draco had to hide his smirk.

“What?” Harry asked stupidly, grin faltering but not vanishing entirely.

“You’re smiling,” Greg clarified, crossing his meaty arms with a suspicious look.

“Oh,” Harry said. “Well, nothing, I’m just smiling.”

“I told you it was creepy,” Draco reminded him.

“Gregory,” Potter said, ignoring Draco, “I want to apologize to you.”

Greg looked about as concerned as he should be in the circumstances, and Draco watched Potter shrewdly as he decided how to word his apology.

“I wasn’t very nice to you or your friends in school, and I underestimated you.” Potter pushed his glasses back up his nose, even though they hadn’t fallen in the first place. “I was hoping to make things right with you.”

There was that phrase again, Potter’s new motto: _make things right_.

Greg’s eyes narrowed, glancing at Draco to be sure he’d heard correctly, and Draco nodded in confirmation. “Well, _I’m_ not apologizing,” Greg said defensively, and Draco snorted before Potter could respond.

“Don’t worry, Greg,” Draco explained with an amused smirk, “Potter just wants to feel morally superior to everyone else and would actually prefer if you _didn’t_ apologize.”

“No,” Harry denied angrily, predictable as always, “I’m doing it because — ”

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Draco finished, raising his eyebrows in a challenge. Potter opened and closed his mouth a few times, apparently stumped. He rather resembled a gasping fish. His eyes were smoldering with anger however, and Draco felt rather accomplished at having finally wiped that cheerful expression off his face. Potter’s green eyes were magnetizing this close up, and Draco suddenly registered how close they really were, only about a foot apart, gazing into each other’s eyes. Greg apparently noticed this too, as he cleared his throat pointedly, causing Draco to hastily turn back to his friend as if nothing had happened.

“There’s open rooms upstairs if you need,” Greg offered solemnly, and Draco’s cheeks flamed at the implication. Ros chuckled from across the room, and Greg preened at her attention. Draco was going to murder him later.

“We’ll be on our way,” Draco ground out, turning on his heel without so much as a goodbye. He didn’t even glance Potter’s way, not wanting to see how he’d reacted to Greg’s suggestion, but he heard the other’s footsteps follow him out into the cool air. Draco was suddenly quite grateful for the chilly breeze, as the pub had been far too warm for his comfort. Not to mention the sudden barrage of images assaulting his mind: Potter leading him up to one of the Three Broomstick’s rooms, Potter tugging on the front of his shirt to drag him close, Potter’s sinfully wet lips attacking his own….

“I’m not sure if that went well or not, honestly,” Harry interrupted as they strode down the street.

Draco glanced at him, noting the other’s complete lack of embarrassment. Damn Potter for not dwelling on Greg’s words like Draco was. “It went well,” Draco assured him grudgingly. “Greg didn’t start throwing punches.”

“Was that a strong possibility?” Potter demanded, looking scandalized.

“Very,” Draco replied earnestly.

“Thanks for the warning,” Potter grumbled, but when Draco glanced over he was smiling again.

Draco would never understand this madman.


	7. Parkinson's Warning

“Wait!” a voice shouted from behind them, and they turned to see Gregory Goyle rushing their way. Harry tensed, thinking of Draco’s comment on Goyle’s fighting proclivities, but Goyle stopped several metres away. “I guess I forgive you,” he said, panting slightly as he shifted from foot to foot. “And I guess I should be sorry too.”

It was a pleasantly surprising turn of events. At most he had expected Goyle to shrug him off. Harry started to smile in response, and Goyle rushed to add, “I’m not though,” as if this was a point of pride for him, and for a moment Goyle reminded Harry of Ron.

“Oh, don’t encourage him,” Malfoy — no, _Draco_ — chastised and pulled Harry away by his arm. Glancing over his shoulder, Harry tried to give Goyle an apologetic smile but he was already making his way back to the pub. As they walked, Harry noticed that Draco hadn’t let go of Harry’s arm, which he held in a loose grip, but Harry said nothing, not wanting to bring that to Draco’s attention.

“I’m going to drop you off first so you don’t keep pestering me at the bookstore,” Draco informed him curtly, apparently explaining the arm situation. “Where do you want to go?”

Harry grinned at him, just to see a sneer in response. “How about Parkinson’s?”

Draco stopped walking and faced Harry, dropping his arm. Harry missed the warmth of his hand. “What?” Draco said.

Feeling mischievous, Harry went on with an innocent expression, “Pansy Parkinson? Don’t you know her?”

Draco grimaced, crossing his arms. “What are you doing, Potter?” His jacket sleeves pulled up a little at the wrists, and for some reason the pale skin there was monopolizing Harry’s thoughts.

“Doing?” Harry parroted, forcing his eyes back up to Draco’s face.

The other man looked impatient with Harry’s slow response. “First Greg, now Pansy?” he clarified grumpily. “What’s going on here?”

The air was chilling in Hogsmeade, having less shelter than the London streets they’d come from, and Harry longed to be indoors by a fireside, perhaps with a cup of hot tea and a temperamental blonde beside him. “I would like to apologize to Pansy, if you would kindly escort me to her door,” Harry told Draco earnestly, watching as the other man’s brow furrowed even more, and his crossed arms tightened.

“You’re up to something, Potter,” Draco muttered at last, looking far from pleased. The irony of this statement wasn’t lost on Harry; it was what Harry had been saying about Malfoy all through school.

“And you’re cold,” Harry said pointedly, not bothering to argue. Draco’s coat was thinner than Harry’s, and he desperately wanted to drape his around the other’s shoulders, but no-doubt that would be taken as an attack of some sort.

Draco huffed at the very true remark, and finally grabbed Harry’s arm again. “Fine,” he relented.

Harry forced himself not to grin too widely at that in fear of Draco changing his mind, but a small smile wormed its way onto his face nonetheless. Draco apparated them into a dim concrete stairwell, and Harry had to blink a few times to let his eyes adjust. His companion had already started walking away up the steps, so Harry hurried after him. Since Draco didn’t look back to see if Harry was indeed following, Harry felt no qualms staring at Draco’s back as they ascended. Draco held himself as elegantly as a pureblood was supposed to, with an air of effortless perfection. Something about it drew Harry in, like falling into a black hole.

On the third floor, they exited into a much brighter hallway, and Harry followed Draco to a door labeled 309. With a last exasperated look at Harry, Draco rapped his knuckles twice against the wood. “Pansy, I’m sorry,” he called through the door in way of greeting, “but I’ve got a terribly stubborn Gryffindor here and he won’t leave until he speaks with you.”

There was some movement within the flat, and a couple unintelligible voices, before the door was flung open and Pansy Parkinson stood in its place, appraising Harry with raised brows. Harry couldn’t tell if she was surprised or bored.

“Parkinson,” Harry greeted politely, thinking it best not to use her first name without express permission.

“Potter,” she replied smoothly, eyes cutting. Was she annoyed? Pissed off? Pleased? Smug? Her face gave nothing away. She didn’t speak or do anything further though, and it seemed as if she was waiting for him to spit out his reason for being here.

“Er, right,” Harry began, trying to focus on the woman in front of him and not on Draco’s smirk he could see out of the corner of his eye. “Pansy — can I call you – ”

“No,” she declared, but her voice was even and she didn’t seem particularly upset. “Go on,” she urged when he didn’t immediately continue.

“Right, well, Parkinson,” Harry tried again, “I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for my behavior in school. I shouldn’t have dismissed you so easily just for being a Slytherin, and I should’ve respected you more as a witch. You’re brilliant, and I never recognized that at Hogwarts. You deserved more credit, and I know that was hard to get while I was, er, kind of taking all the attention.”

Parkinson’s mouth twitched, like she was fighting off an expression. “What a speech,” she commented dryly, and she stepped aside so he could enter. “Tea, Potter?”

It seemed to be a positive reaction, so Harry stepped inside and gratefully accepted her offer.

“Not you,” Parkinson snapped, and Harry turned to see her closing the door on Draco’s offended face. “You’re not nearly as nice.”

“Pansy, let me in,” Draco’s voice filtered in through the door, but he didn’t sound too hopeful, and Parkinson ignored him, turning instead to usher Harry further into the flat. Being alone with Parkinson was suddenly making Harry much more anxious than when he knew Draco was there next to him.

“Er, are you having a fight?” Harry ventured, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“With Draco?” Parkinson asked incredulously. “Of course not. Lavender?” she called, and Harry startled as Lavender Brown strolled into the room.

“Harry?” she asked, grinning unrestrainedly. She jogged over and swept Harry up in a hug, which he returned. “Why are you here?” she asked amiably. “Draco isn’t around.”

“Apologizing,” Harry replied, bewildered as he took in her half-shaved head and not-weather-appropriate tank top and shorts. “And what do you mean? Draco’s outside.”

Lavender rolled her eyes playfully, but Harry couldn’t determine why. “Of course,” she muttered.

“And you?” Harry asked, getting back on track. “Why are you here?”

Lavender smirked and snagged Parkinson’s waist in her arms. “This one’s my girlfriend,” she told him proudly, as Parkinson squirmed away.

“Only if you make us tea,” Parkinson countered, but it was clearly an empty threat with the way she was smiling fondly at Lavender.

Mock-pouting, Lavender obliged, and left them to themselves as she went off to the kitchen. Parkinson gestured to a comfortable-looking chair across from a couch, and he gladly took a seat. It was cozy and the flat was wonderfully warm, so Harry gratefully shucked his coat.

“So I’m brilliant, huh?” Parkinson asked as she sat down opposite him, on the couch.

“Yes,” Harry confirmed eagerly, hoping to make the situation less awkward.

“In what ways?” she queried, her blank mask restored.

“Er….” Harry racked his brain for any memories he had of Parkinson in school. There was the time when she’d draped herself all over Draco in the Hogwarts Express. Harry’s insides churned at the reminder. And then the times she teased Hermione. Or when she tried to give Harry up to Voldemort. No, she must’ve done something else…. Suddenly, Harry remembered a day in charms class in fifth year when Pansy Parkinson cast a perfect silencing charm in Professor Flitwick’s class on her first try, though Hermione had been working on hers for weeks. Flitwick had given Slytherin ten points for that. “Charms!” Harry exclaimed in his excitement, then flushed when he realized how loud he’d been. “You’re brilliant at charms,” he reiterated at a normal volume.

Parkinson simply waited for him to continue, and Harry panicked once more. What else had he seen Parkinson excel at? “You’re a loyal friend,” he blurted, thinking this must be applicable to any Hogwarts students during the time they were at school. A war does that to you, makes you stick by your friends more than anything.

Parkinson snorted. “I was a lousy friend,” she told him casually. “I threw a fit whenever Draco wouldn’t snog me. I thought I was in love with him, you see,” she admitted, looking more smug than embarrassed. “But that was when I was still convinced we were both straight.”

Harry wished he could keep his face as expressionless as she could, but as it was, Harry was sure he was practically gaping. She’d said aloud — well, she’d implied — that Draco was gay, right? He hadn’t misheard that?

“Which is why, Potter,” Parkinson went on, looking thoroughly unimpressed with his lack of a poker face, “I have to ask: what are your intentions with my dear Draco?”

All the blood in Harry’s body seemed to rush to his face. “Er, what?” he spluttered gracefully.

Parkinson leaned forward, her fingers making a temple as she stared into Harry’s eyes. “If you just want to fuck him and leave, I’m warning you that you will wake up one day with significantly fewer appendages than you have now.”

It took Harry a few moments to process her threat, and by then Harry was spluttering worse than before. “I’m not – there’s no reason – he’s not even – why do you – no!”

“Good, you seem to be more emotionally invested than that,” she said, getting to her feet with the silent grace of a cat.

There was literally no response Harry could think to give to that, so he settled with a desperate, “Did you just threaten me?”

Parkinson blinked at him like he was an idiot, which was entirely unfair considering the stressful interrogation she had just put him through. “Of course, darling,” she said, and she began to walk away, but then turned to face him when she reached the doorway. “I’m sorry too, for trying to give you up to the Dark Lord,” she added, sounding positively disinterested with the whole conversation.

“Don’t mention it,” Harry replied weakly, and she finally broke her uncaring façade to give him a wry grin.

Lavender came in through the other doorway as Parkinson pulled open the front door to let Draco in. He was currently leaned against the opposite wall of the hallway, visible through the door, with his coat slung over his arm and an unhappy expression on his pointed face.

“She can seem kind of intimidating at first,” Lavender said as she delivered his tea, voice pitched low so the other two wouldn’t hear. “But the Slytherins are all sweethearts underneath. You just have to wear them down.” She winked at him as if she’d just done him a huge favor, and Harry wondered if she had. Perhaps all he needed to do with Draco was wear down his defenses. Spend more time getting to know him. It wasn’t all that bad of an idea.

“Thanks,” he told her, but she was already sinking into the couch, Parkinson settling in beside her.

“Potter, get up, you’re in my seat,” Draco grouched, stopping to his right.

Harry just looked up at him challengingly. He might be trying to get on Draco’s good side, but he wasn’t about to be pushed around by an insufferable brat.

“Oh, come on, Draco,” Parkinson drawled. “There’s plenty of room.” She seemed to be gesturing towards the seat Harry was currently on, a chair with decidedly no room for more than one person, unless Draco were to sit on Harry’s lap. The thought was hurriedly dismissed, but not before Harry considered what Draco’s face might look like if he unexpectedly yanked him down onto his lap right then. And how it would feel to support Draco’s lean frame, Harry’s arms wrapped securely around Draco’s narrow hips.

Scoffing at the implication, but looking entirely unaffected, Draco instead squeezed onto the couch next to Parkinson and Lavender. The two girls seemed to be gradually twining most of their limbs together, an impressive feat, and it felt oddly intimate to watch, so Harry settled his gaze on Draco, who happened to be staring back at him. Draco quickly averted his eyes, a hint of pink creeping onto his cheeks. Harry felt a rush of pride at having put it there.

“What did you discuss?” Draco wondered mildly, but the tension lacing his words belied his interest.

“There was quite a bit more groveling on Potter’s part,” Parkinson answered airily.

“And that was so private?” Draco muttered, studying the arm of the couch he was sitting against. It was unclear if he meant for anyone to hear him.

“Potter was praising my abilities in charms,” Parkinson went on, a twinkle in her eye as she flashed a smile at Harry. He returned it warily.

“Well, you are quite _charming_ ,” Harry said, trying to lighten the mood, but that just caused all three of the others to give him disappointed looks.

“Puns are not permitted on the premises,” Parkinson admonished. “And anyway, you should get going if you want to catch Blaise. He normally leaves for the club about now.”

Harry frowned at her in puzzlement. “Blaise Zabini? What’s this got to do with him?”

“Time to go,” Parkinson insisted, waving her hand toward the far wall, which held a small fireplace. “You’re welcome to use the Floo.”

Lavender laughed like her girlfriend had told a hilarious joke. “You’d better be off, Harry,” she said merrily. “Pans doesn’t take well to guests who outstay their welcome.”

“Zabini Mansion, that’s the Floo name,” Parkinson dismissed them. “He won’t mind.”

Parkinson’s eyes were becoming less and less friendly with each passing second, and Harry got to his feet, feeling increasingly out of place. “You’re sure?” he asked, taking a step toward the fireplace.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” Draco cut in disapprovingly, standing as well and blocking Harry’s path with a hand. Obedient, Harry stopped, Draco’s hand brushing lightly against his chest. “I’m taking Potter home for today, no more excursions.”

“You’re taking him home with you?” Lavender giggled, her and Parkinson smirking at each other. Harry made a valiant effort to remain unfazed.

“Get out,” Parkinson demanded, not unkindly. She still hadn’t moved from her place on the couch. “Blaise is expecting you anyway.”

Draco dropped his hand. “Really, Pansy?” he asked, voice edging on whiny.

“He’s waiting,” she said, no longer paying them any mind, and instead turning to nuzzle her girlfriend’s neck.

“Fine,” Draco growled, and Harry let him shove him toward the empty fireplace. “Potter, you first.”

Harry suddenly imagined showing up in Zabini’s house alone, a wand in his face and no Draco beside him to mediate. “You’re sure you wouldn’t like to lead?” Harry checked, hoping he didn’t look too panicked.

Draco rolled his eyes, something only Draco could pull off with poise. “Scared, Potter?” he taunted, but his tone was light. “I’ll be right behind you,” he added in what was almost a reassuring voice if it weren’t for the mocking smirk, his hand ghosting over Harry’s lower back as he urged him forward. Even through the material of his shirt, Harry’s skin prickled where Draco’s hand came near.

Just to be an arse, Harry beamed at Draco as he grabbed a fistful of Floo powder from a pot above the fireplace and stepped in. “Zabini Mansion,” he declared as he threw down the powder, and the last thing he saw of Parkinson’s flat was Draco’s answering glare. Somehow, Harry had come to prefer that glare to any smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, I'm rubbish and I will try to pick up the pace ;)


	8. The Widower's Son

The Zabini Mansion was similar to Malfoy Manor in its grandeur — though this Mansion was a much more recent development — except for the fact that the Zabinis rarely used their home for anything other than posh soirées. Socialites from all over the U.K. and sometimes further were constantly at the Mansion; Draco couldn’t fathom how Blaise or his mother ever got any rest. The Zabinis entertained guests as often as most people ate meals. It was exhausting to even think about.

This evening was no exception. When Draco stumbled from the Zabini fireplace — right into Potter who hadn’t bothered to make space for him, forcing Draco to steady himself by clutching onto Harry’s shoulders — the smooth notes of a muggle jazz band (muggle music was _in_ right now) drifted out from an ancient radio in the corner of the room. A room which was filled to the brim with stylish witches and wizards of all ages. Several seemed quite appalled by their entrance, including an astoundingly tall woman wearing a color-changing feather boa who gasped audibly at their appearance, but a few others began applauding softly, as if Draco and Harry had just performed a stunt for their amusement. Beside him, Potter almost bowed but Draco managed to grab his arm to stop them from further embarrassment.

“Draco,” Blaise said, ambling over to them in a sleek black and green suit, looking pleasantly surprised by their abrupt arrival. “What brings you here?” He turned his idle gaze on Potter, who was currently trying to straighten his shirt like he suddenly realized he was underdressed. “And with baggage?” Blaise added, nonplussed.

Draco sighed. Pansy hadn’t told him they were coming after all. The cheat. “Hello, Blaise,” Draco greeted, already affecting the air of haughtiness that a guest of the Zabinis ought to have. “Apologies for the intrusion. Mr. Potter here has something very important to tell you, but I’m sure he’d prefer less of an audience.”

Blaise nodded graciously, turning to lead them out into the hall, occasionally smiling at someone or other as they vacated the main room. Out of the corner of Draco’s eye, he could see Harry looking askance at him, a puzzled expression on his face. Was it just Potter, or were all Gryffindors that rubbish at hiding their emotions?

“What is it this time, Potter?” Draco said coolly, noting how Harry startled out of his trance. “Is there something on my face?”

“No,” Harry rushed, “no, of course not.” He frowned again, which then somehow morphed into a smile. “It’s just, you act different around him. Like the Malfoys I remember.”

“Fond memories, I’m sure.” He didn’t even try to keep the bitterness from his voice. All Harry ever talked about was the past, the one place Draco never wanted to think about. Harry didn’t respond to that; he merely went back to frowning.

Blaise was leading them down a hall, the sounds of the party fading as they got farther away from the source. The hall was filled with portraits of all the men Blaise’s mother had married and purportedly killed; there were eight so far. Neither Draco nor Blaise were under the illusion that she was innocent, but in their book she was smart enough to not ever be caught and that was an admirable feat in itself.

“I think he was my father,” Blaise had said once when they were younger, eleven or twelve, one summer, as he stood in front of the portrait of Ms. Zabini’s third husband. He had the same sharp features as Blaise, but his eyes were blue and pouchy, making him look weak and helpless. Blaise was fiercer than anyone else Draco knew, even at that age.

“If he was, you got the best of him,” Draco had said pointedly.

The portrait had stared back at them in silence, eyes searching. None of the paintings in the Zabini household spoke. Draco wondered if Ms. Zabini had spelled them that way so they couldn’t accuse her of foul play or if something about this place made them want to keep their voices down. Draco could understand that compulsion; the Mansion echoed in a way that shamed you into staying quiet. It felt like a place of worship, though it was far from it.

They passed that portrait of Blaise’s maybe-father now, and those lost blue eyes followed them as they went. If he could speak, Draco wondered what he would say.

“I hope you’re in the mood for aged firewhiskey,” Blaise started, as he held open a door to one of the Mansion’s many lounges.

Harry strode in first, looking much more confident than when they’d first arrived (maybe it’d been the crowds that had bothered him; Draco could relate to that), and Draco followed after, with Blaise bringing up the rear and closing the door behind the three of them. Harry lingered in the middle of the room, looking unsure what to do with himself, so Draco set the example by sitting on one side of the couch, and Harry gratefully followed his lead, plopping down next to him. Blaise filled three glasses with the aforementioned firewhiskey, and handed them off, sipping at his own tactfully as he took a seat in an adjacent chair.

“I hope you don’t think me rude,” Blaise prefaced, in his most gentlemanly voice, “but as one of two hosts, I am expected to attend the party. Is it brief, what you have to say?” Another delicate sip.

Harry, who had just downed his glass like a shot and was swaying slightly as he set the empty glass on the side table, blinked a few times to get his bearings. Blaise’s eyes followed his unsteady movements with a critical eye, but he made no comment. “Er, yes, brief…as a button,” he said with renewed valor, and Draco blushed on his behalf.

Blaise set his glass down, and made a show of leaning forward in interest as he waited for Potter to get on with it. Underneath all the courteous manners, Blaise really wasn’t a patient man.

“I just wanted to say,” Harry went on, steadier than before, “I’m very sorry for how I behaved at Hogwarts, how I treated you and the other Slytherins. My friends and I never gave you a chance to prove yourselves, and we were right nasty sometimes. But honestly,” Harry kept going, and Draco sensed a blunder in the making, “I think you lot were probably meaner to us than we were to you, but all the same, you know, it takes two, as they say.” Harry nodded solemnly, like he was agreeing with himself.

Blaise, chivalrous as he was, didn’t argue with Harry’s assessment. “It’s very kind of you to go out of your way to tell me all that,” he commended. “I appreciate your time.” Blaise always was the most diplomatic of Draco’s friends.

Harry smiled dopily, and Draco sipped at his firewhiskey to test its potency. The liquid burned all the way down his throat, and the feeling didn’t abate after he’d swallowed. Already, he felt rather lightheaded. Perhaps Potter really was half-drunk from just a glass.

“Do you accept my apology then?” Harry asked, still smiling like he expected a positive response.

Blaise considered him for a moment, and it seemed like he was taking Harry seriously for the first time. “Have you apologized to Draco?”

“I _have_ aplologized,” Harry insisted, butchering the word ‘apologize’, “on two separate occasions, but he won’t forgive me.”

Blaise’s lips curled up in a smirk as he met Draco’s eyes. “Twice?”

Draco returned Blaise’s semi-bored look. “He’s very persistent.”

With a reserved sort of snort, Blaise turned his attention back to the pouting Harry Potter and informed him kindly, “No, Mr. Potter, your apology is not accepted.”

Harry’s face fell, and Draco’s heart lurched seeing such a heartbroken expression on his face. “Why not?” Harry asked plaintively, reminding Draco strongly of a wet kitten. It was a testament to Draco’s strength of will that he didn’t reach over and pull the other man into a hug right then.

“I’m afraid,” Blaise said, rising from his seat with the effortlessness and fluidity of mist, “I must get back to my guests. You may stay as long as you wish. Draco,” Blaise added, turning to him with a fond smile that Draco knew was rehearsed, “I trust you remember the way out.”

Draco nodded, both exasperated and in awe of his friend’s suave evasiveness, and stood to give Blaise a quick embrace.

“Bye, Blaise Zabini,” Harry mumbled, still sitting, and Blaise smiled indulgently at him before slipping silently from the room.

Draco turned back to his strange, tipsy companion. “It’s late,” Draco declared, crossing his arms just so he had something to do with his hands. “I’m not taking you to anyone else tonight.”

Harry rubbed his eyes under his glasses, yawning. It was a wonder his patronus was a stag and not some type of feline. “Alright,” Harry agreed easily, and Draco was rather taken aback that he hadn’t put up a fight.

“Alright,” Draco repeated, neither of them moving.

Harry looked up at him with tired green eyes, and it was very hard to think anything at all while he was doing that. Draco looked away.

“I suppose you’re going to obsess over Blaise now,” Draco said conversationally, wincing as he thought about how Blaise would react to such a breach of decorum.

“No,” Harry snorted like Draco had said something ridiculous. “Of course not.”

Draco looked back at the other man; his hair had somehow become more disheveled than before. “But he didn’t accept your apology,” Draco pointed out, wondering how Harry had forgotten that so quickly.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, “so?”

Draco frowned at him, in a very mature, not-petulant way. “Why are you still pestering _me_ then, and not him?” he demanded, feeling cross. “Why not Greg, or Pansy?”

Harry’s stupidly green eyes seemed to get bigger as he stared up at Draco. “Well – I suppose,” he stammered, because apparently coherency wasn’t one of Harry Potter’s strong suits. “Because – well – it’s different – ”

“How?” Draco interrupted his babbling; his voice came out pricklier than he expected. “How is it different?”

Harry stood then, making them far too close, so Draco took a step back, hating that it looked like a retreat. Draco Malfoy didn’t run away from his problems.

“I hurt _you_ ,” Harry said, “the most.”

A silence stretched between them. It felt like the walls of the Mansion were sucking up all sound. Draco felt like a Zabini portrait, unable or unwilling to speak, he wasn’t sure which. For the second time, Harry’s words brought him back to that day years ago when he’d been crying in a Hogwarts bathroom, mind filling with images of his mother being tortured and murdered by the Dark Lord, and then a face in the mirror, familiar and unfriendly, and before Draco knew it, he was on the ground, pain like he’d never felt slicing through him, blood mixing with the flooding water. He hadn’t been able to speak then either. Not even to scream.

Harry stepped towards him, hands half raised like he was going in for a hug. He dropped his arms when Draco snapped back into the present, flinching violently. He kept his feet planted though, this time. He wouldn’t run away.

“And it matters,” Harry said quietly, almost pleading. There was only a couple feet between them. “Your forgiveness, it matters to me.”

Swallowing, Draco struggled to find his voice. “But not Blaise’s?” he asked. He sounded rough and scratchy, and he willed his voice to be stronger. “He doesn’t matter?” That was better, more authority.

“No – I mean, yes – I mean,” Harry stuttered hopelessly, “Not like you do.”

Draco suddenly thought of Severus Snape, and his patronus, how it changed to a doe to reflect the woman he loved, how he made a mistake — many mistakes — and it led to that woman’s death, and how he spent the rest of his life trying to make things right because of her. How Potter was now on a mission to make things right. If only Draco would let him.

“I’m leaving now, Potter, and I don’t want you coming around my work anymore,” Draco heard himself saying, as if from a great distance. “I’ve moved on, the past is the past, I’m done with it.” A pause followed, filled with so many possibilities, so many opportunities, so much nothing. “I’m done with _you_.”

He didn’t look at Harry as he strode past him out of the room. He didn’t look at the many silent portraits lining the hall as they fidgeted in their frames. He didn’t return their melancholy stares.

Footsteps picked up behind him, and before he knew it, a breathless Harry was blocking his path. “Malfoy,” he gasped, “Draco. I’m _sorry_.” One of his hands reached up to pull at his own hair, a look of torment on his features. Draco wanted to smooth that look away. “I fucked up, I know,” Harry went on, his other hand dragging over his face roughly. His legs couldn’t stay still, shifting back and forth, trying to find a comfortable spot. “I’ve done it again, and again, and _again_ , and I just can’t seem to get it _right_.”

Draco’s throat had dried up once more, words caught somewhere behind his tongue. The man before him looked half-crazed, panting with emotion, and just watching him made Draco’s breathing speed up too.

“Please,” Harry implored, “Draco, I want to _fix_ this.” His voice cracked on the word ‘fix’ and it was taking every ounce of strength Draco had not to cave in to his desire to wrap this man up in his arms. He hadn’t thought those green eyes could become any more compelling, but the water welling up in them made them positively spellbinding. “I can’t do this without you,” he admitted quietly, slightly more composed. “Please, Draco, don’t make me do it alone.”

It took several moments for Draco’s mouth to remember how to form words, but he was finally able to say, “Alright.”

The hope that broke over Harry’s face was worth any amount of groveling, money, humiliation, in the world. It was like watching a sunrise over a wide, gentle ocean. “Alright?” he repeated, and his voice was worse, like a man who’d lost his will to live being offered a second chance.

“Yeah,” Draco said, hating how weak he sounded. “Yes,” he said again, trying to regain some level of dignity, “but not tonight. And not tomorrow. Give me a break. I do have a job, you know.”

Harry beamed, then bit his lips like he was trying not to smile but the smiling was winning out anyway. “Anything you need,” he said, and he backed up a few paces, leaving room for Draco to pass him. “I’ll see you around, Draco.” He said Draco’s name like a promise. Like an unbreakable vow.

Draco nodded curtly in response, and strode past the other man without a second glance. He knew Harry was following at a distance, since they were both leaving the Mansion, but Draco was grateful for the space. It wasn’t until he’d reached the front door and apparated onto his own doorstep that he realized his hands were clenched into fists, his fingernails digging crescent-shaped dents into his palms.

Harry Potter was going to be the death of him.


	9. The Unwelcome Visitor

It was five days after Harry had parted ways with Draco at Zabini Mansion, and Harry was enjoying lunch with Ron and Hermione at the Leaky Cauldron — enjoying because he was distracted by thoughts of a certain blonde saying, “Alright” and “Yes” with the most dumbfounded expression Harry had ever seen on him — when Pansy Parkinson interrupted them out of nowhere by slamming her hands down on their table.

All three of them jumped, Ron letting out a startled “Merlin!” before turning to gape at Parkinson. The woman in question was glaring right at Harry.

“Er, Parkinson, nice to see you again,” Harry greeted her, swallowing his previous bite of food nervously.

“Potter,” she snarled, leaning on the table with both hands and crowding into Hermione, who leaned as far as she could into Ron’s side.

Harry opened his mouth, intending to introduce the two parties, but Parkinson was already berating him.

“What did you do?” she demanded. “After I clearly threatened you!”

Glancing awkwardly at his two lunch companions, Harry asked her meekly, “What do you mean?”

Parkinson threw her arms up in the air. “ _Draco_ ,” she clarified, “obviously.”

“Er,” Harry replied, wracking his brains for anything he’d done that might have led to this situation.

Across from him, Hermione was sharing an incredulous look with Ron, who shrugged in bewilderment. Parkinson crossed her arms, still paying the other two no mind.

“We agreed to meet?” Harry ventured cautiously.

“And?” the Slytherin girl prompted, seeming to be fishing for a particular response.

With a helpless look at his friends, Harry gave Parkinson a clueless shrug.

Huffing in exasperation, Parkinson sat down next to Hermione, forcing Ron and Hermione to squeeze to the other end of the bench, even though there was more room beside Harry. “I don’t know why you’re friends with such an idiot, Granger,” she remarked dryly, snagging a chip off Harry’s plate.

There was an awkward moment where Hermione flushed, looking between them all, and stuttered, “I – well – ” but before she could finish, Pansy continued, “But I’m friends with Draco, so I guess that makes two of us,” and Ron snorted into his food. Pansy half smiled, half sneered at him, looking as if she’d only just registered his presence, and Ron smiled back, looking more bewildered than ever. Even Hermione had an approving sort of smirk on her face.

It was the weirdest moment of Harry’s life — and he’d time-traveled. Just watching his Gryffindor friends warming up to this abrasive and icy Slytherin was like finding out Santa Clause was real _and_ mean. It was too much to take in.

“So what _did_ you do, Harry?” Hermione asked curiously, all three of them turning on him.

“ _Really_?” he blurted, feeling completely betrayed. “You’re on _her_ side now?”

Ron looked decidedly uncomfortable, but Hermione just rolled her eyes. “If it’s to do with Draco, I’m sure you did _some_ thing,” she commented unapologetically.

Harry frowned at her while she resumed eating her salmon and broccoli as if they weren’t just assaulted by a Slytherin. Parkinson reached over and claimed a piece of broccoli for herself; Hermione did nothing to stop her.

“Nothing!” Harry cried, flabbergasted by the whole ordeal. “Why does everyone assume I did something wrong?”

“Because,” Parkinson snapped, waving another of Harry’s chips in his face, “Draco has been sulking for the past five days after your little excursion and I want to know why.”

“He has?” Harry asked, forgetting about the unfairness of these accusations for the moment. “Is he alright?” The Draco Malfoy from sixth year flashed before Harry’s eyes, with sallow skin and sunken cheeks, killing himself to complete an impossible task. It made Harry’s insides churn to think he might ever look that way again.

Parkinson sat back in consideration, popping the chip into her mouth. “You really don’t know, do you?” she said thoughtfully as she chewed.

Harry shook his head, becoming more concerned by the second. “Is he ill?” he demanded, leaning towards Parkinson as if that would provide him the answer. “Is he taking care of himself? Is he eating?”

Parkinson’s eyebrows shot up as she eyed Harry. “He’s _fine_ ,” she told him, somewhat defensively. “Just a little bummed out.” She glanced at Hermione next to her, who gave her a sympathetic smile.

“Maybe,” Hermione began in a tone that suggested she was about to provide an obvious and fool-proof solution to all their problems, “you should owl him, Harry, and ask him if he wants to meet you?”

Harry chewed his lip, lost in thoughts of an emaciated Draco dying in bed with no one to care for him. “He already agreed to meet with me,” he muttered distractedly.

Hermione glanced at Parkinson knowingly. “When?”

Harry shrugged, rubbing his forehead with his hand to relieve some stress. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “He’d said in a few days.”

“Well,” Hermione went on carefully like she was trying not to startle him, “maybe he’s been waiting for you to contact him.”

Harry met her gentle gaze. “What’s that got to do with him feeling unwell?”

“He’s not _unwell_ ,” Parkinson interjected, and her face had returned to its usual bored state. “He’s upset.”

“Yes,” Hermione agreed, as if Parkinson had made a brilliant point. “And maybe it would ease some of his… stress, if you talked to him.”

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. This conversation was giving him a headache. “I’m pretty sure I’d only stress him out more. He’s not exactly fond of me.”

Ron snorted again, reminding everyone of his presence, and muttered, “I’d say he’s more than fond of you, mate,” before Hermione elbowed him harshly in the side. Ron exclaimed in pain as Parkinson looked on with a faintly amused smile.

“What are you on about?” Harry asked him, befuddled at all the glances they were exchanging.

“Nothing, mate,” Ron sighed. “I just think you should owl him is all.”

“You too?” Harry said in disbelief.

Ron only shrugged.

“Well, do it quick,” Parkinson demanded, standing and smoothing out her blouse. “I can’t stand it when he sulks.” She turned to Hermione and Ron, apparently done with Harry. “It was a pleasure to meet you on friendly terms. I hope to see you both again.” She leaned down and kissed Hermione on the cheek and then turned on her heel to stride out of the restaurant.

Hermione blushed, as she always did when someone had charmed her. Even Ron looked impressed as he watched Parkinson leave. “I like her,” Hermione declared, facing them again.

Ron nodded, though he seemed surprised by his own agreement. “She’s not as horrible as I remember,” he said thoughtfully.

“Unbelievable,” Harry muttered, picking at his chips.

Hermione gave him an admonishing look. “Harry, if you can like Draco, then we can like Pansy.”

“Pansy?” Harry blurted.

“She has a first name,” Hermione told him stubbornly, “and I’m going to use it.”

Harry wasn’t entirely sure why he was so unnerved by this development, but he didn’t bother to think about it too hard. He had more important things to worry about, such as Draco and his apparent decline in health. Or happiness, perhaps. Either way, Harry had to fix it. “I have to get going,” Harry told his friends, standing hastily as he gathered his coat. “Work,” he added in way of explanation, and his friends nodded understandingly as he went.

But as soon as he’d gotten several paces away, he heard Ron mention his name, and Harry couldn’t help but hang back, stepping behind a pillar so as not to draw their attention.

“I still wish Harry had chosen someone other than Malfoy,” Ron was saying, presumably around a bite of food due to the muffling of his words.

“We’re not in school anymore, Ronald,” Hermione scolded lightly. “I’m sure he’s not so bad.”

“Yeah, but,” Ron replied, sounding resigned but woeful, “there’s loads of blokes who’d be into Harry. Charlie’s gay, what about him?”

Hermione sighed. “And Charlie is wonderful, but he spends all his time with dragons. I don’t think Harry’s particularly fond of those since fourth year. Even the Gringrotts one made him jumpy.”

Ron grunted, acknowledging her point.

“And besides,” Hermione went on, “it’s not up to us who Harry likes. He’s doesn’t even realize it yet himself.”

“Maybe he’ll never realize it and we won’t have to welcome Malfoy to the family after all,” Ron suggested hopefully.

“And maybe _you_ should start getting used to calling him Draco,” Hermione countered, earning a tired sigh from Ron. “At least he’s fit,” she added as an afterthought and Ron choked.

“Hermione!” he complained. “That’s bloody disgusting!”

Hermione was laughing uncontrollably. “Well, he _is_ ,” she gasped between giggles.

“Unbelievable,” Ron said, but there was mirth in his voice.

Harry’s feet began moving without him deciding to and he found himself leaving the Leaky Cauldron as fast as he could. He couldn’t figure out what he was feeling, but his stomach felt tight, and his lungs felt smaller than usual, and his head felt like it was spinning.

Nothing was wrong. He had no idea what his best friends were talking about. Everything would go on like normal.

He just really needed to see Draco Malfoy.

* * *

As it turned out, when Harry apparated to The Dragon’s Lair, the dragon himself wasn’t in. Dr. Finch had been sitting behind her desk as usual, inspecting some text Harry didn’t bother to identify, and when he’d asked for Draco she’d told him regretfully that he’d just missed him. Then she’d offered to help him find a book, and he told her something along the lines of “I don’t read” and ran out of the store. In retrospect, Harry realized he must have looked mad, rushing in and demanding to see her only employee and then declaiming his illiteracy before bolting. He really hoped she wouldn’t tell Draco about that.

He hadn’t known how to find Draco from there, so he’d ended up wandering around the area until he passed by the park he and Draco had visited, and the church that stood next to it had reminded him of a place he’d only heard of.

The gravestones here were small and unobtrusive, and it made Harry feel horribly guilty walking through them with his infamous lightning scar and unwanted stardom. Amongst these bones, he wasn’t a hero, he wasn’t a savior. He wasn’t welcome.

He looked at the names as he passed, trying to remember who they were. Tarquin Travers, one of them read. Augustine Selwyn, another. These names meant nothing to him. No face came to mind, nothing but indistinct sneers. He went through each row, all of them dull and undistinguished. There was no indication of rank or wealth. No family plots or extravagant arrangements. At last, he passed one he did recognize: Bellatrix Lestrange.

This was the graveyard for Voldemort’s supporters who died during the Battle of Hogwarts. No fancy statues or memorials for them. The Ministry had set up anti-vandalism wards, but that was the only courtesy the wizarding world had extended. It was chilling in this small, out-of-the-way place not connected to any town, mostly because it was so understated. Harry might’ve felt more at ease if there were statues of gargoyles and a perpetual mist curling over elegant marble tombstones. But it was oddly unremarkable. Just a patch of dirt on the side of an unfrequented road. It was just as well, Harry supposed; no one wanted to be seen visiting _these_ graves.

Harry felt uncomfortable with the whole arrangement. These were people who had chosen the wrong side, yes, but if history had fallen out differently, these headstones would list _Harry’s_ name, and his friends’. It wasn’t about right or wrong, it was about who won. And that didn’t say anything about the individuals. Harry only ever knew one side of them, the side that was ruthless and hellbent on killing him. But he knew they couldn’t have all been purely evil. They stuck together, were loyal to their families and friends. They loved, and were loved. Didn’t that mean something?

Didn’t that mean anything?

Harry scanned the gravestones, looking for one name in particular. Every grave was granted its own body-sized portion of earth, though Harry knew most of these were out of respect rather than necessity; many of these people hadn’t had bodies left to bury.

There wasn’t a headstone for Tom Riddle. Perhaps if Dumbledore had still been alive, there would’ve been, but out of the few people who still remembered the boy separate from the monster he had become, none had asked for a gravestone. Voldemort would be remembered in the pages of history, but he no longer had a place on this earth.

Harry found what he was looking for at the end of the last row, hidden in the corner. It was cleared of the weeds that were encroaching on most of the other headstones, and a small bouquet of yellow flowers rested before it. Daffodils, if Harry recalled correctly. They looked fresh, but Harry wasn’t sure if that was via spellwork or if they’d been put there recently. The epitaph above them was short; there wasn’t even a date. It read simply: _Vincent Crabbe, loyal and true_.

Harry didn’t think those were the most accurate descriptors, seeing as before Crabbe had died, he’d quarreled with Draco about killing Harry and cast Fiendfyre in spite of Draco’s orders, but he supposed for most of Crabbe’s life he had been loyal to his friends. Don’t speak ill of the dead, and all. Besides, judging Crabbe’s character wasn’t why Harry had come.

He leaned down and conjured a small white tulip with his wand. Hermione had told him once that muggles had created a language of flowers. Different species and colors held different meanings. Harry had never encountered this in his experiences in the muggle world, although his experiences had been rather limited at the Dursley’s. She said the meanings were based on potion-making ingredients. Likely, back when wizards and witches consorted with muggles, the rumor that these flowers carried specific meanings, in connection with their use in certain potions, became widespread belief, especially once the wizarding world began to withdraw into secrecy. The white tulip, Hermione told him, was a key ingredient in Largioserum, a potion that could dissolve resentment in the drinker and urge them to make peace with their enemies. It was used as an alternative to torture in medieval wartime, in order to convince prisoners to cooperate. In the language of flowers, the white tulip represented forgiveness.

Draco wasn’t here to see this. He would never know Harry had come to this grave.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered into the quiet, still air. He tried to think of any good memories he had of Crabbe, or at least not bad ones. Nothing came to mind. But that was alright; those good memories of Crabbe weren’t for him. They belonged in the hearts of Crabbe’s family and friends. It was enough to know that they existed.

“I know it’s too little, too late,” he added, staring at the cup-like curve of the tulip petals, pale against the dirt. “But I think, if things had been different… very different… maybe you and I could have been friends.” Harry grimaced, remembering a particular incident when Crabbe had taunted Susan Bones in fifth year. “Or maybe not friends,” he amended. “But maybe not enemies either. You could have been a good man, with the right influences.” Harry shook his head, realizing he was just criticizing Crabbe again, rather than taking responsibility for his own behavior. “Regardless,” Harry forged on, “I know you did what you did to make your family and friends proud. And that _is_ an accomplishment. You made the people you cared about happy.” Harry rubbed tiredly at his eyes, feeling himself droop. “I wish _I_ could do that,” he sighed, then let out an airy chuckle. “Who would’ve thought,” he said wryly to the stone, “I’m jealous of Vincent Crabbe.”

At least Crabbe had been there for Draco, had supported him through thick and thin, had beat up anyone who Draco didn’t like. Harry wondered if Crabbe would beat him up for upsetting Draco these past few weeks, if he were still alive. He probably would.

“Thanks for being his friend,” Harry said softly, earnestly, to the headstone.

The stone didn’t respond, didn’t move, and Harry was almost disappointed that it didn’t rear up and punch him in the face. There were no ghosts here. Vincent Crabbe wasn’t buried here — hardly any bodies were actually buried here. All there was were names. Names couldn’t hurt him. And they couldn’t comfort him. And right then, there was only one name that mattered.

Harry walked back through the rows of headstones until he reached the dirt road on the other side, where he could apparate away. He had to find Draco Malfoy.


	10. The Promise-Keeper

Stupid bloody Potter with his stupid bloody promises and his big green eyes and his dumb messy hair. Argh, Draco was going crazy!

Of _course_ Potter had promised to come back and see him — and had promised to give it a few days because he was so damn considerate all of a sudden — and then _not_ shown up the whole week. Well, it’d been five days and a half.

But Draco wasn’t counting. He refused to let Potter ruin his day. (Or days. Five and a half to be exact.)

No, this was stupid. No more thinking about Gryffindors with hero complexes. It wasn’t healthy. In fact, Draco would be happier if Harry never showed up in his life again.

“If you keep scowling, I’m going to have to kick you out,” Madam Rosmerta said casually, ambling over to where Draco sat at the bar. “You’re scaring my customers.”

“You always say that,” Draco replied, trying valiantly to soften his expression for her, “but you never do.”

Ros began wiping at the counter with a rag that looked like it was dirtier than what it was supposed to be cleaning. “That’s because you don’t usually look quite so murderous.”

Draco didn’t deign to answer, taking a swig of his butterbeer instead. He’d ordered it out of nostalgia, thinking it would lift his spirits, but now he just wished it was firewhiskey. Remembering Blaise’s specially aged firewhiskey, Draco wondered if Ros still had that expired stuff, and if it would be worth the risk of poisoning to drink it. He was starting to think anything would be better than one more second dwelling on the way Potter’s lips curled upward when he smiled, or determining the exact shade of green that his eyes were. Emerald, perhaps.

“This is about Harry Potter, isn’t it?” Ros guessed, interrupting his musings and giving him a sly smile.

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Draco grumbled, more annoyed that she was right. Pansy had tried to force him into discussing Harry every time he saw her after the apology mission. It was why he’d come here today instead.

“Probably because it’s true,” Ros answered unsympathetically.

Draco frowned at her as she wiped the counter. “Not everything’s about Potter,” Draco said bitterly.

Ros gave him an unimpressed look even though Draco hadn’t technically lied. “No,” she agreed, “not everything. But this is.”

Draco sighed, dropping his head onto the counter in defeat. “He’s the worst person I’ve ever met,” he groaned, staring at the wood that was far too close to his eyes to see clearly.

Ros barked out a laugh and patted him on the back genially. “I’m sure that’s not true,” she crooned indulgently.

“It _is_ ,” Draco groused, feeling like a child, but too miserable to care. “I’d rather shag Voldemort than spend another _second_ around Potter.”

Rosmerta’s laugh was breathier this time, like she was caught between mirth and horror, and Draco supposed it was still too soon to joke about the darkest wizard to ever live. The door to the pub swung open, letting in a burst of cool air, and Draco figured Ros would be leaving to serve whoever it was, but to his surprise, she continued their conversation unhurriedly. “Merlin, Draco, tell me what you really think,” she said, sounding pleased, and Draco decided that yes, he _would_ tell her what he really thought about Potter, because maybe then he wouldn’t keep thinking about the prat.

“Harry Potter,” Draco began with a passion, raising his head off the wood to meet Rosmerta’s amused eyes, “is the most self-righteous, entitled, idiotic wizard alive. I’ve met _animals_ smarter than he is — because animals can sense danger and Potter bloody well can’t. Most people, as you previously suggested, would run when they see me glaring daggers at them — but _Potter_ seems to think this is an expression of _friendship_. People don’t go around pestering old schoolmates they hated after years of silence — but _Potter_ does! Sometimes I wonder how he’s even a wizard — he looks at maps instead of casting directional spells, and makes promises the muggle way that aren’t magically binding so he can go and break them without a second thought! He makes you think you mean something to him for some reason, but then once you let your guard down for a _second_ , he disappears for a week and it drives you insane! So yes, he’s the worst person I’ve ever met because at least the Death Eaters were predictable, _evil_ is predictable. But what Potter is is terrible, because he’s just stupid and heroic and always trying to _‘do the right thing’_ and it’s rubbish!”

By the time Draco finished his rant, he was panting slightly, and he had to take another sip of his butterbeer to hide his loss of composure. 

“You’re right,” came a voice from behind him, and Draco nearly choked. 

Eyes wide in horror, Draco turned his gaze from the bemused Rosmerta to Harry Potter, who was wearing a dark grey coat that was too warm for the pub, as if he’d just come in from outside. Harry’s face didn’t betray any emotion, but his tone was lighthearted as he continued, “There are loads of animals smarter than me. I bet those Blast-Ended Skrewts could get higher results on their O.W.L.s than I did.” 

“Potter,” Draco breathed in shock, because what else could he say? 

Harry took the seat next to him as casually as if they were old friends, and politely asked Rosmerta if he could have a butterbeer as well. “I’ve been looking for you,” Harry went on conversationally. 

Draco gave him an incredulous look. “I’ve been at the bookstore every day this week.” 

Harry smiled ruefully. “Well,” he amended, “I’ve only been looking for about an hour. Luckily you’re at one of four places I thought to check.” 

“Lucky,” Draco muttered, turning away to stare at the far wall. He really hoped his ears weren’t bright red, but after Harry’s sudden arrival Draco couldn’t quite chase the blush off his cheeks. The loss of composure was unsettling for Draco. 

Harry cleared his throat awkwardly. “Er, I want to apologize to you – ” 

“Oh, not this again – ” 

“It’s not about the same thing so it doesn’t count,” Harry cut him off hastily. “I’m just sorry that I didn’t get back to you sooner. I wasn’t sure how much space you needed so I opted for longer.” 

Draco frowned, because of _course_ it was because Harry was trying to be gracious. 

“If it helps, I didn’t want to wait at all,” Harry said at a quieter volume, so Rosmerta, who had just placed Harry’s butterbeer before him and walked a few paces away to the next customer, wouldn’t overhear. “I wanted to see you sooner.” 

Draco froze, gaze fixed on a battered dart board across from them. Harry had never been that direct before. Neither of them had. It was like a soft, soothing melody curling up in Draco’s ears. It was dangerous. 

“Not mutual,” Draco grunted, trying to sound unaffected, like what Harry said hadn’t been exactly what Draco wanted to hear. Already he could feel his bitterness towards the other man dissolving like ice on sun-hot pavement. 

Harry just snorted, and the sound sent shivers down Draco’s spine for some reason that Draco refused to think about. “I thought you’d say that,” Harry replied, still as infuriatingly cheerful as usual. “But you promised you’d help me apologize to the other Slytherins, so there’s no backing out now.” 

Draco rolled his eyes, but didn’t meet Harry’s gaze again. He was worried his face might give away something he didn’t want it to. “A lapse of judgement on my part, but I suppose it’s unavoidable.” He took another sip of his butterbeer to make sure his throat was going to continue working and not do that thing where it sounded all breathy and nervous. “Who are we harassing today?” 

“Er,” Harry replied slowly. 

“You haven’t anyone in mind, have you?” Draco demanded, turning to face him at last. Potter was looking guiltily into his butterbeer. “For Merlin’s sake, Potter, no wonder your apologies are so rubbish — you just make them up on the spot, don’t you?” 

Harry shot him a abashed smile to indicate his extreme remorse. Draco was amazed at the indecency of it all. 

“Well, think of someone, will you?” Draco grumped, glaring at the distant dartboard again while he waited for Potter to make a decision. He briefly wondered if Harry even remembered all their names, but quickly shoved that idea aside. That would really make Draco hate him, so he’d better wait for proof before overreacting and dumping the rest of his butterbeer over Harry’s head. Though maybe Draco could get away with doing it just for fun, even if there wasn’t a reason. The appeal of that thought had nothing to do with the picture it would make, Harry gasping and sopping wet. 

“Millicent Bulstrode,” Potter announced from beside him, looking pleased with himself. 

Draco frowned at him, trying to pretend he hadn’t just been imagining Harry drenched in butterbeer. Mill was an odd choice. It wasn’t like Potter had ever really interacted with her. What was he going to apologize for? As ridiculous as Potter’s decision was, Draco stood to imply he was ready to go. He left his butterbeer on the counter, not wanting the rest, and Harry looked sadly at his own barely touched butterbeer before sighing and standing as well. 

“You could bring it with you,” Draco suggested at the disheartened expression on Harry’s face. 

Harry shook his head as they walked toward the door. “I don’t think it would look good to apologize with a drink in my hand.” 

Draco let out a chuckle, imagining how Mill would take it if Harry apologized to her while seemingly drunk. She’d probably break the bottle over his head. 

When they reached the door, Harry leaned forward and opened it before Draco could, which was a bit odd since Draco was in front, and gestured for Draco to go through with a short “after you.” Draco couldn’t tell if he was imagining the feeling of Harry’s warmth behind him, seeping into the skin of his back. 

“What a gentleman you are, Potter,” Draco found himself saying. Harry’s responding laugh made Draco’s pulse double its tempo, and his palms became instantly sweaty. _Harry Potter_ , Draco thought to himself warily, _what are you doing to me?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I'm getting busy, but I'll do my best to update as often as possible! Thanks for the support :)


	11. The Procession of Slytherins

“That went well, I think,” Harry said, mainly to see the incredulous look that was forming on Draco’s face in response.

“You’re mad,” the blonde replied, and Harry didn’t miss the way his eyes followed one of the droplets of ale down Harry’s chin before waving his wand to dry Harry off.

Millicent Bulstrode hadn’t been in very high spirits when Harry had ambushed her at her job in an unassuming muggle pub. “Do all your mates work at pubs?” Harry had asked Draco, who had scoffed but not bothered to answer. He’d almost asked if all Draco’s mates liked muggles now, but the question seemed insensitive, so he kept his mouth shut. He didn’t fancy Draco storming off on him again. It’d been hard enough to get him to tolerate Harry for _this_ long.

“Mill,” Draco had greeted lightly, and a very tall, bulky woman turned around to glare at them.

“What?” she’d demanded hotly, looking between the two of them. Draco gave Harry a little shove forward, as if to say “don’t look at me” and Harry spared him a betrayed glance before meeting Bulstrode’s fiery gaze with a more amiable one.

“Hello, Millicent,” he began, and the girl was definitely not pleased by the use of her first name. The hand not holding a platter of drinks was in a fist against her waist. Her pitch black hair that that was pulled up in a loose bun looked about as desperate to run away from her as Harry was in that instant.

“I’ve come to apologize,” he plowed on, hoping to appease her. “I was a right git to you in school.”

Bulstrode’s eyes were so narrowed, Harry could hardly see them at all. If she glared any harder, Harry wouldn’t have been surprised if they disappeared into her head.

“I’m very sorry for underestimating your talents and personality traits.” Perhaps not the best apology, but Draco was right, Harry came up with them on the spot — and it was very difficult to think clearly while a six-and-a-half foot tall woman was glowering at him like she wanted to strangle him with his own intestines.

There was a tug on Harry’s arm, and he let Draco pull him back a couple paces. “We’re sorry to bother you at work, Mill,” Draco intervened smoothly, starting to lead Harry away. “It was good seeing you.”

Bulstrode made no move to stop them or hurry them along, but her hooded eyes followed them to the door. She was a large woman, only rivaled in size by the Beauxbatons headmistress Madame Maxime. The dress and apron she wore were heavily stained, and the scowl on her face looked rather permanent. Perhaps it wasn’t personal after all. Feeling a twinge of pity, Harry yanked himself from Draco’s grip and jogged back over to Bulstrode, who still watched him like a hawk.

“Millicent,” Harry tried again with a burst of confidence, “you deserve more than how us Gryffindors treated you, and — ”

That was when she dumped the entire platter of ales over Harry’s head. Luckily the four glasses vanished before they could smash into him — sometimes Harry still did accidental magic, like a child would; it was rather embarrassing — but the liquid sailed unimpeded through the air and landed all over Harry’s face and clothes. A cheer went up around them, from the drunkest of the muggles, and for the first time a smirk appeared on Bulstrode’s boxy face. So maybe it _was_ personal.

“Have you given up yet?” Draco asked now, crossing his arms as they stood outside Bulstrode’s workplace in a seedy part of East London.

Harry flashed a grin at him, delighting in the way it made Draco purse his lips in distaste. “Never,” Harry declared triumphantly. “I’m a Gryffindor.”

“Merlin help us,” Draco said to that.

Marcus Flint was the next on Harry’s list — a list he was trying to form as Draco stood in front of him tapping his foot impatiently, which didn’t help at all because Draco’s presence was far too distracting — and so Draco took him to Flint’s doorstep. Draco failed to mention that Flint lived in France before taking them there, and when Harry realized this, he turned into a bit of a Hermione, lecturing Draco for several minutes on the illegality of transnational apparition.

“Shut _up_ , Potter,” Draco grumbled after his scowls and eye rolls didn’t do the trick. “You asked to come here, don’t blame me.”

Huffing in exasperation, Harry turned to the door and knocked. They were in a fairly small town out in the French countryside, and he had to admit it was picturesque. He wasn’t about to admit that out loud though, not after Draco just broke international travel law to get them here.

“I do it all the time, Potter, don’t look so panicked,” Draco muttered behind him, and Harry spun around in alarm.

“All the time?” he repeated in a strained whisper. “Draco, you could face Azkaban for that!”

Draco just glared at him. “The countryside is hardly ever monitored.”

“It’s still illegal,” Harry groaned, rubbing his temples like that could expel the knowledge of Draco’s illicit activities from his brain. “I work for the Ministry, I can’t know these things.”

The door flung open, and Harry spun around to see Marcus Flint standing in the doorway, looking wary. He didn’t appear much different from how Harry remembered him. He still had large, crooked teeth that made him look faintly trollish, though he’d let his coarse black hair grow out to his shoulders, and it suited him better than the short-haired look. “Harry Potter?” the man said cautiously. His nose looked like it had been broken more than once; it had so many twists and turns it was hard to tell if had ever been straight.

“Marcus,” Harry said, a bit stiffly, “hello.”

Flint turned his worried grey eyes on Draco, who stood behind Harry so he couldn’t see what he did, but Flint’s worry seemed to have diminished by the time he addressed Harry again. “What do you want?” he asked gruffly, like he wasn’t used to being civil.

“Just hear what I have to say,” Harry replied, trying to sound as reassuring as possible.

Flint glanced at Draco again, seeming distressed.

“I’m sorry for how I treated you in school,” Harry recited, trying valiantly to sound more original. The words felt tired and rubbery in his mouth, like old gum. He hoped Flint wouldn’t notice. “I was never very nice to you or your friends, and that was wrong of me. I hope this apology helps, in some way.”

There was a moment of silence as Flint stared at Harry, open-mouthed. His teeth looked like they were trying to jump out. Then, without warning, he busted out laughing, a raucous, hacking laugh that made Harry want to cover his ears. “Tracey!” he bellowed, still cackling, his eyes watering in his mirth. “Get out here, this is priceless!”

“What?” a woman’s voice demanded grumpily from somewhere within the house.

“It’s Harry fucking Potter,” Flint crowed, holding onto the doorframe for support, “he’s come to _apologize_!” The way Flint said it, Harry wasn’t sure if he was teasing him in a friendly way, or actually mocking him. To be safe, Harry smiled tentatively.

A vaguely familiar face appeared at Flint’s elbow, another Slytherin, and she was staring at Harry like she’d never seen him before. “Potter?” she said, gaping.

“Er, yes,” Harry replied, glancing at Flint, who was still laughing away. “I’ve come to apologize — ”

As soon as the word was out of Harry’s mouth, the woman — Davis? Tracey Davis? — began guffawing along with Flint, nearly falling over but steadying herself on Flint’s shoulder. “What a ponce!” she cried, as they laughed against each other.

“A fucking apology!” Flint reiterated gleefully. “I could kick his arse!”

“You should!” Davis urged, still in stitches.

As they continued gasping for breath, Harry felt a cold sense of dread wash over him; it didn’t take a genius to know these two were mocking Harry for all they were worth. There was something especially humiliating about being the one who had attempted peace. None of the other Slytherins had received him this poorly — Harry wasn’t prepared for it. Anger, he could handle. Caution, too. But for them to have not changed at all…. Why did he feel so stupid all of a sudden?

“Sod off, Flints,” Draco’s voice snarled from beside him, and for the second time that day, Harry felt Draco tug on his arm, silently prompting him to go. This time he obeyed, and Draco disapparated them back to England, into the alley by The Dragon’s Lair. Harry didn’t even bother to berate him about his lawbreaking this time. It wouldn’t help.

“Alright,” Draco said, not leading them out from the alley. His voice sounded strained, and Harry looked up at him to see he had an awkward smile plastered in place. “Who next?”

Harry stared at him a few seconds longer than necessary. Even forced, his smile was charming. “I think I’m done for today.”

“Are you giving up already, Potter?” Draco challenged. “We’ve only just begun.”

Harry frowned at him. “Are you trying to encourage me?” he asked, perplexed. Since when did Draco actually want him to succeed?

Draco was quiet for a moment, then countered, “Is it working?”

Harry sighed. “Maybe you’re right. They don’t want to see me. I’m not fixing anything like this.”

“That’s bullocks,” Draco snapped, smile vanishing. “Pansy loves you now, and Blaise is even asking when you’ll be visiting again. Even Greg has expressed concern over your mental state, without prompting.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

Draco rolled his eyes, and Harry realized it was an action he found endearing on the other man. “Who’s next?”

Harry shook his head slightly, trying to deduce Draco’s motives. He must have some other reason for wanting to help Harry. Right? _Or maybe_ , said a small voice in Harry’s head, _he just wants to help_. Whatever it was, Harry found he didn’t really care either way. As long as Draco came with him.


	12. The Greengrass Estate

“Daphne Greengrass,” Draco announced decisively when Harry took too long to answer, and grabbed Potter’s arm to apparate them. Draco wasn’t exactly thrilled to see the Greengrasses again, but they were surprisingly nice and welcoming to their guests, and from the look on Harry’s face after their encounter with the Flints, Draco decided he needed that.

“Honestly, Draco, I don’t think I ever met the Greengrasses,” Harry hedged as they appeared in front of the Greengrass gate. Little metal songbirds were flitting about the bars, chirping in their tinny voices. The Greengrasses were all quite adept in charms and their estate was the most flamboyant of all the old families — and definitely the most pleasant. It almost made up for the Greengrasses themselves.

Beyond the gate was a mile-long dirt driveway that led up to a mansion which, if possible for a mansion, looked rather quaint. The mansion was a soft cream-yellow color, like diffused sunlight, with sky blue highlights along the edges that wavered like a mirage. It made the whole building appear to shimmer like an illusion on the perfectly manicured grass. The sun was quite warm here, with no clouds in sight, and the entire estate was exceedingly welcoming. Without them even having to knock or otherwise announce their presence, the gates parted to let them in. Draco wasn’t sure if they’d been manually allowed in by the sisters, or if the wards were set to always let him in. Astoria could be sweet, and luckily much less exuberant when it came to Daphne’s ideals, but both sisters put Draco on edge. Possibly because they were constantly trying to seduce him.

“Where is this place?” Harry wondered in an awestruck voice as they walked down the lane.

“Scotland,” Draco answered shortly. It was too much effort to be nice to Potter for long, and Draco found himself gradually slipping back into his usual disinterested demeanor.

Harry raised his eyebrows almost comically high. “It can’t be Scotland, it’s too _warm_.”

“It’s _magic_ , Potter,” Draco explained with a sigh. It was hard to believe how clueless this man was sometimes.

The lane wasn’t actually a mile long — in fact they’d hardly walked ten metres before they arrived at the front door. The magnificent mansion had diminished to the size of a large house now that they were closer.

“How…?” Harry muttered in bewilderment, looking back at the gate about a mile away.

“ _Magic_ , Potter,” Draco sighed again, and before they could even knock, the door swung inward as if they were expected.

“Draco,” Daphne greeted, standing in the doorway with a full champagne glass and her usual smile. On anyone else it would look kind and friendly, but Draco knew Daphne too well. Her long blonde hair fluttered prettily in the breeze. “And Harry,” she added graciously, unfazed by Draco’s unusual choice of companion. “Please, come in.”

Harry seemed instantly taken with her, and immediately did as she asked, stepping inside. Daphne’s eyes trailed after him for a moment too long, and Draco clenched his teeth as he too entered. There was nothing to get worked up over, Daphne was just up to her usual tricks.

Once inside, the walls went from solid wood to crystal clear glass, and the sunlight poured in just as if they were standing outside. Harry’s mouth was hanging open as he stared wide-eyed out across the rolling green fields, and the several horses grazing in the distance. “This is magic,” Harry breathed, undoubtedly wondering how so many enchantments could be put on one estate.

Draco rolled his eyes at Harry’s behaviour. “Daphne, it’s a pleasure as always,” Draco said, forcing Daphne to return her gaze to him. It was uncomfortable to have her look at him like that, with those hungry eyes, but it was better him than Potter. “I must apologize for my companion, he’s quite dense when it comes to the obvious.”

“Now Draco,” Daphne chided, though her voice was still honey-sweet, “don’t be a bully.”

Harry, who had been gaping at the vaulted glass ceiling where the sun was glancing off every surface and creating rainbows and shimmering images of animals that danced around in the light, now looked back at Daphne Greengrass in awe. “I’m sorry, Daphne,” he began, with a guilty expression, “I have to admit I don’t really remember you from school.”

Daphne laughed lightly, voice like a clear bell, and the movement caused her sleek blonde hair to ripple around her face. Draco was starting to feel very irked by the way Harry was staring at her, even though he knew Daphne was using charms to enthrall him.

“Why would you, Harry?” she said generously after sipping at her champagne.

Draco wrinkled his nose at the choice of drink; it was far too ostentatious for the occasion.

“We were in different Houses, with different passions,” she went on. She said the word ‘passions’ like it was a secret between them. “Our paths never crossed.”

Harry blushed slightly under her dazzling smile. Draco knew how intoxicating the Greengrasses could be; he couldn’t blame Harry for acting so starstruck. Besides, Draco had picked this place to lift Harry’s spirits. If Draco were to interrupt now it would accomplish the opposite of that.

“Well, I’m – I’m sorry for all the animosity between our Houses,” Harry managed to stutter out. “I hope there’s no bad blood between us.”

Daphne laughed that tinkling laugh again, ambling over and placing her free hand on Harry’s arm. Her fingers were so delicate, resting just above his elbow; Draco could almost feel the uptick in Harry’s heartbeat. For the briefest of moments, Draco imagined _he_ was the one touching Harry’s arm and making his heart race. Until Harry slid his hand up to meet Daphne’s and brought her hand to his lips for a flirtatious kiss. Draco had to bite his lip hard not to intervene. Daphne was shameless. But then her eyes slid to Draco’s and she winked. It was still all for Draco’s benefit then. Wonderful. At least Potter wasn’t at risk.

“There’s no bad blood where there’s pure blood,” she told Harry in her most magnanimous voice, the sunlight illuminating her blonde hair like an angel’s halo, and Draco winced. He’d been hoping they wouldn’t stumble onto this topic.

Harry blinked, retreating his hand abruptly, like a spell had been broken. “Sorry?” he asked, all traces of cordiality gone.

Draco tried not to feel too pleased at Harry’s reaction, but there it was in his chest, like a smug cat, only rivaled by the horror that Harry might think Draco agreed with her twisted views.

“Oh there’s no need to apologize again, Harry,” she assured him, gracing him with another coquettish smile despite his abrupt disinterest. “I already know you’re half-blood. It’s my business to know. But it really can’t be helped. So many pure wizarding families have diluted their bloodlines with muggle filth, there’s hardly any purebloods left. It’s a travesty.” She shook her head sadly, seeming to misinterpret Harry’s unease for understanding, and rushed to acquit him. “At least your father was pure. Shame about the mudblood mother. I’m sure you’re nothing like her though.” Her eyes were full of compassion, as if she were doing Harry a grand favor by accepting him and his half-blood status.

Harry took a step back, seemingly speechless at this turn of events, and he finally glanced over at Draco. Taking that as his cue, and eager to prove his distaste for Daphne’s philosophy, Draco stepped forward into the line of fire. Daphne’s eyes settled on his. “Daphne,” he said haltingly, trying to ignore Harry’s inscrutable gaze, “I’ve just remembered, I have an appointment. I’m afraid we can’t stay.”

Daphne pouted her lips at him. “But Draco,” she protested, somehow dignified and petulant at the same time, “my sister has been waiting for you to stop by. She’s quite taken with you.”

Draco wondered if she thought that would really persuade him, because in actuality it was only making him more desperate to leave. Astoria wasn’t Daphne, but she still wasn’t exactly tolerant. “As much as I’d love to chat with Astoria, we really must run,” Draco insisted, turning towards the door and reaching out to snag Harry’s sleeve. Harry wasn’t speaking up yet, and Draco worried coming here hadn’t been a good idea after all. Maybe Harry would be mad at _him_ now. As much as Draco might pretend that would be a relief, the thought of Harry leaving his life now was making him feel queasy.

“Or you could stay and chat with _me_ ,” Daphne suggested, her voice dropping to a lower volume. She brushed her fingers against his wrist as he tried to skirt around her. “Merlin knows we can’t waste _your_ genetics.”

Before Draco could continue towards the door or think of anything else to say, Harry whirled around to face her, his sleeve falling from Draco’s grasp. “ _Excuse_ me?” Harry growled, glaring at the blonde witch.

Draco was too startled to stop him. Daphne put her hand to her chest, like she was terribly offended, even though Harry hadn’t even insulted her.

“I don’t know what sort of pureblood game you’re playing at,” Harry spat out, clearly no longer impressed by Daphne or her enchanted home, “but Draco isn’t your plaything. So stop harassing him, and — you know what? — apology retracted. You’re as bad as I _thought_ Slytherins were, so I guess I wasn’t all wrong.”

Daphne was gaping at him. So was Draco. Did Harry Potter just defend him?

“You are a _guest_ ,” she hissed, aghast, no longer smiling as she clutched her champagne glass tightly. It was a good look on her: bitter and disgusted.

“Yes,” Draco rushed to say before Harry could respond, “and you’re an elitist snob with no friends.” Arguably not the best comeback for a twenty-one year old, but at least Harry would know where he stood.

“Also, your house is tacky,” Harry added, as if this was an important point, and Draco couldn’t help but crack a grin.

And that was how Harry got doused with alcohol for a second time that day, and Draco got banned from the Greengrass Estate forever.

“This apology campaign is going well for you, Potter,” Draco remarked as they strode back up the lane and out through the gate, aiming to sound bored.

Harry grinned at him. “It sure is, Draco.”

Draco tried to scowl back, but it came out as a smile. This was turning out to be a pretty amusing use of his time. “Then where to next?”


	13. The Impossible Wish

“Potter,” Draco started, an almost-concerned expression on his face, “perhaps you should reconsider.”

“We’re already _here_ , Draco,” Harry pointed out, as they dawdled in front of a shady barbershop in Knockturn Alley, labelled only _Beard Trimming at Low Cost_ with the owner’s ridiculously over-recycled name printed on top. “Is it the owner you’re worried about? Podric Batworthy XXIII?” He idly wondered how twenty-three generations hadn’t been able to come up with a more original name, or if they somehow thought adding numbers amounted to prestige.

“It’s more your target that gives me pause,” Draco sniffed, giving the owner’s sign a small sneer.

Harry frowned at him. “What’s wrong with Nott?”

Scrunching up his nose in distaste, Draco answered, “He’s… rather uncouth.”

Harry snorted. “Draco,” he stressed, “even _I’m_ uncouth in your opinion.”

“You _are_ ,” Draco agreed, giving Harry an unimpressed look, “but Ted can be… obscene.”

Harry rolled his eyes, not letting Draco’s lack of enthusiasm diminish his good mood. “I survived Flint,” he said dismissively. “I’m sure I can handle a bit of foul language.”

Apparently that was enough to make Draco give in, because he sighed and muttered, “Suit yourself,” and led the way to the door.

It was dim and dusty inside the shop, and there was a single customer in the back corner being tended to by the presumable Mr. Batworthy. Harry couldn’t tell if the customer was even human or not; there was so much thick black hair coming out of its head, it was impossible to see if the thing had limbs or humanoid body parts at all. For all he could tell, the creature was all hair. The only way he could surmise it was actually a customer, and not some creepy wig statue, was the fact that it was swaying back and forth and babbling on in some lyrical foreign language.

Draco nudged him, and Harry looked up to see that Draco was making an impatient gesture towards the other side of the shop. Sure enough, Theodore Nott was there, sweeping up loose hairs into small piles. The more he swept, the more dirt and hair he seemed to find. Not to mention that Mr. Batworthy’s current client was shedding copiously — and yet still so ensconced in the wiry hair that Harry would be shocked if it was human. Even as Mr. Batworthy cut off locks of the stuff, it seemed to grow back instantly to the same length. The two seemed unperturbed by this detail, as Batworthy continued trimming and the creature continued burbling away in his melodic tongue. Harry briefly wondered if Batworthy could understand the odd language — it was definitely not a human one — but then Draco nudged him again, and Harry refocused on the task at hand.

“Why doesn’t he use magic?” Harry asked under his breath, as he watched Nott labour away.

Draco gave Harry a withering look. “His wand was taken. As punishment.”

Harry felt an uncomfortable weight settle in his chest. “That’s awful,” he breathed, thinking of the only other person he knew to receive that punishment. And Hagrid hadn’t even deserved it.

“Well,” Draco answered in a strange voice — it was a mix between bitterness and amazement, if that was possible — “not every Voldemort supporter was defended by the savior of the wizarding world at their trial.”

Harry turned to look at the man beside him, but Draco’s expression was closed off as usual, and he stared straight at Nott, ignoring Harry’s questioning eyes. Was he trying to make Harry feel guilty for not doing more, for not helping more people? But there was no way Harry could have defended everyone, no one would listen if he’d shown up at every trial. He’d had to chose. And he’d chosen Draco. Was Draco angry about that? If he was, Harry was baffled about how to fix it. Even if he’d known this was how Draco felt, he never would have let him be sent to Azkaban with the other Death Eaters. Or have his wand confiscated like Nott. Draco didn’t deserve that fate; he was different.

With a last lingering look at Draco, who appeared terribly bored, Harry approached the heavyset man sweeping the floors. “Nott,” Harry began hesitantly, stopping in front of him, “I’d like to apologize.”

“Fuck off, Potter,” Nott snapped, not even looking up from the floor.

Harry glanced back at Draco, who graced Harry with a roll of his eyes. Well, he _had_ warned him. “All the same,” Harry forged on, turning back to Nott, “I am sorry for how us Gryffindors treated you lot in school.” These apologies were getting quite succinct, but since Harry had hardly interacted with many of the Slytherins outside Draco’s immediate friend group, it was difficult to be specific.

“Up yours,” was all Nott said in reply. The words were laced with venom, and Nott’s movements were stiff, but he didn’t seem to be overly aggressive. Harry’s mischievous side was starting to show.

“And I hope we can be friends,” Harry went on, wondering how far he could push his luck.

“Get the fuck out,” the other man growled, sparing a furious glance Harry’s way.

“Alright,” Harry relented, holding up his arms in surrender, then added, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I’ll take this broom and shove it up your arse!” Nott bellowed, and Harry jumped back as Nott brandished his broom, trying to keep a straight face.

“See you around, mate!” Harry called out as he skittered back to Draco’s side.

Nott looked like he was about to threaten Harry again, but the shopkeeper starting shouting at Nott to get back to work, and the hair-creature was gurgling at a higher volume now, seemingly upset by the disturbance.

Harry slid his hand into Draco’s and pulled them out onto the street again. It wasn’t much brighter out in Knockturn Alley, but it was empty enough to give a sense of privacy. When he glanced at Draco’s face, he found his companion was desperately trying to bite back a grin.

“I never knew you had a mean streak, Potter,” Draco commented dryly when he saw Harry looking. He was still smiling, like he couldn’t hold it back for the life of him.

“You don’t look like you mind,” Harry returned casually, tugging slightly on Draco’s hand.

Draco seemed to realize at the same time as him that they were still holding hands, and there was a moment where they just stared at their joined hands, before hastily pulling apart. Harry couldn’t quite figure out why his hand felt so pleasantly tingly. Or why his chest felt so full of warmth.

“I think that’s quite enough for the day, Potter, wouldn’t you agree?” Draco had placed his hands in his pockets, as if to keep them from Harry. It was just as well, seeing as Harry felt a strong urge to snatch them up again, and Merlin knew what curse Draco would cast on him then.

“I suppose you’re right,” Harry allowed, but he felt rather reluctant to part ways just yet. When did spending time with Draco become so crucial to his wellbeing? It felt as if were he to leave now, something inside him would shatter.

“I trust you know your own way,” Draco farewelled, but he didn’t turn to go.

“No,” Harry blurted, seizing the opportunity, “I don’t!”

Draco raised his eyebrows at him. “You don’t know how to get home from here?” he asked dubiously.

“I, er,” Harry stuttered, “got turned around. Which way is Diagon Alley?”

“Merlin,” Draco swore under his breath, then pointed to the left. “It’s just a few blocks that way, you dolt.”

Harry shifted on his feet awkwardly. “Could you show me?”

Draco’s lips pursed in annoyance. For a dreadful moment, Harry thought he was going to reject the idea, but finally the blonde nodded resignedly and set off down the street, making Harry jog to catch up.

“Thanks,” Harry said, but then there was just silence, as neither of them seemed to have anything to say. “It’s rather dark here,” Harry tried, gesturing to the many closed shops and dim alleyways.

Draco gave him a sidelong glance, but otherwise didn’t react. Harry began worrying his lip. It somehow felt like he had limited time to get Draco to say something, or to smile, or laugh, or bloody well react to something. There were more Slytherins, this wasn’t the last time he’d see Draco. So why did it feel like an end?

And when did this apology mission become only about Draco?

“Are you going to keep staring at me?” Draco snapped, and Harry blinked, averting his eyes only to look right back at Draco’s face. There wasn’t anything else interesting to look at in this dank place. At least, that was the excuse Harry was going with.

“If you would talk it would be less weird,” Harry suggested hopefully.

“Will talking get us to Diagon Alley faster?” Draco questioned without looking Harry’s way.

Harry frowned as Draco picked up his pace. “No,” he said.

“Then I don’t see why I should,” Draco declared.

Harry’s chest felt like it was filled with bricks, and he dragged his feet to compensate for the weight. “You don’t only have to do things that will reward you,” Harry mumbled dejectedly. “Sometimes you can just do things to be nice.”

Draco whirled around to face him, and Harry must have missed something because Draco was seething. “You don’t get to pass judgement on me just because I’m not perfect like you!” he hissed, menacingly quiet in echoey street. “Not everyone gets to be the hero, Harry, we don’t all get to grow up with the world cheering us on! Do you really think I had a choice?” His voice broke a little on the last word, and it ached in Harry’s heart. “You never had to choose, anyway,” Draco went on, suddenly worn out, slumping against the closest wall. “You never had to choose between your family and doing the right thing.”

Draco closed his eyes, head tilting up like he was trying to regain his composure, and the image was doing strange things to Harry’s stomach. He wanted to reach out and touch Draco’s shoulders, his face. He wanted to comfort him, say it was alright, say he never expected Draco to choose, though that wasn’t necessarily true. He desperately wanted Draco to choose right now, to choose Harry over anything else, to never have to feel like a villain again.

Draco’s tongue flicked out, just for a second, and wet his bottom lip. His eyes were still closed. Draco swallowed, and Harry’s eyes followed the motion all the way down his throat before jumping back up to his lips. Without really thinking about it, Harry took a small step forward, so that Draco was only about a foot away. Draco looked so vulnerable, leaned up against the brick wall of the alley, and Harry wanted nothing more than to keep him safe, to wrap him up in his arms, and to brush his hair from his face and to —

He wanted to kiss Draco Malfoy.

And he could — _Merlin_ , he could — if he just closed the space between them. Maybe dragged his fingers over those sharp cheekbones. Caressed his jaw.

He was a vision, an angel, glowing white-gold in front of Harry. If he could just touch him.

If he just —

Draco’s eyes fluttered open.

“I think I can find my way from here,” Harry choked out, and he turned and fled up the alley as fast as he could.


	14. Forgotten Promises

He had been so close. Draco could’ve touched him. How could Harry go from setting Draco’s teeth on edge to making him feel like the most important person in the world? That was how Harry looked at him sometimes, like nothing else mattered, like nothing else _existed_. It was _maddening_.

He probably looked at everyone that way. Except he _didn’t_ , Draco knew. He’d seen Harry enough times with his friends, and his girlfriends in the past, to know that he didn’t look at anyone like that. Only Draco.

It made him want to give up and snog Harry until his legs gave out.

Draco wasn’t sure when he’d accepted his terribly inappropriate feelings towards the Golden Boy. It was less of a sudden realization, and more of a gradual lessening of denial. It was difficult to pretend he didn’t care when Harry stared at him like he did. With his frustratingly green eyes, and wild black hair that simply _encouraged_ being tousled more. It was entirely unfair.

He could still feel where Harry had grabbed his hand. And how he almost hadn’t let go.

Draco groaned inwardly. He had even _thanked_ Harry, for defending him at his trial, and Harry had said _nothing_. And then he’d said Harry’s name, his _first_ name — it had just slipped out in his anger — but at least Harry hadn’t seemed to notice. Harry would’ve never let _that_ go.

What a fool he’d made of himself. He desperately hoped Potter would call it quits so he would never have to face him again. And yet, the thought made him oddly cold.

Why did he have to be in love with a madman?

Yes, _in love_ , stupidly in love, because there was no grey area when it came to Harry Potter. There were only good guys or bad guys, heroes or villains. Love or hate. Or both at the same time. But Draco could never merely _like_ Harry, never simply fancy him. Of course he had to be horribly in love with him. It was dreadful.

The bell on the door of The Dragon’s Lair rang to announce a customer, and Draco immediately stiffened. Was it Harry? So soon? Didn’t he have a _job_ for Merlin’s sake? He couldn’t see the front from here, so he just waited, listening close for the sound of Harry’s voice.

“Draco?” Dr. Finch called out moments later, a sing-song quality to her voice that meant it wasn’t just anyone at the door. Draco’s heart leapt to his throat. “I think this young man would like a word with you.”

Smoothing out his shirt and hair, Draco straightened up and made his way to the front, heart beating out of his chest. His palms were incurably sweaty, and he kept having to wipe them surreptitiously on his trousers. He hoped he didn’t look as keyed up as he felt. Draco took a deep breath, shaking his head at the stupidity of it all. There was no need for all this anxiety; it was only Potter.

The man smiling at him when Draco reached the counter was definitively _not_ Harry Potter. “You didn’t call me,” the man said in way of greeting, and Draco’s disappointment gave way to embarrassment.

“Connor,” he stuttered, a blush rising in his cheeks, “I apologize. I’ve been busy.”

Connor glanced pointedly around the empty bookstore, but made no comment.

“How are you?” Draco asked, trying to avoid the real reason he hadn’t called — or even thought of — Connor, which was that the most famous wizard alive kept whisking him away on apology sprees and that Draco was pathetically in love with the tosser.

“I’m good,” Connor replied casually, his American accent out of place in the quaint English bookshop. “I’d be better with a guide.”

“Yes,” Draco said ruefully, ducking his head, “I am sorry about that.”

Connor grinned at him, eyes crinkling. “You could make it up to me,” he suggested, shrugging playfully. The first time Draco had met Connor, all this flirting had felt refreshing and fun. Now there was something missing. Probably Harry Potter. Draco idly wondered if Harry would burst in this time too.

“I’m… not sure I have the time,” Draco hedged, hoping Connor would leave it at that. As appealing as he was, with his surfer’s drawl and toned muscles and tanned skin, he wasn’t Potter, and that was his biggest flaw. Because apparently Draco had terrible taste in men.

“Just a drink, then.” Connor was still eyeing Draco flirtatiously. “You owe me.”

Draco hesitated. A drink didn’t mean anything. It could just be a friendly gesture. And he did feel bad for forgetting his promise to Connor. “Alright,” he found himself saying, trying not to think of any possible ramifications, like Potter somehow finding out and never wanting to speak to Draco again. Besides, it wasn’t like he owed Harry anything. Perhaps Connor was just the distraction Draco needed to get his mind off that insufferable wizard.

“Great, let’s go,” Connor said, turning toward the door.

“I’m sorry,” Draco sputtered in surprise, glancing at Dr. Finch who was pretending not to listen, “right now?”

Connor raised his eyebrows at him. “Yeah,” he said, as if it were obvious.

This whole conversation was making Draco feel awkward and unbalanced. And it didn’t help that images of Potter kept popping into his head, and that he kept worrying Potter might stop by while he was out. Would he wait around for Draco, or would he give up and leave? Did Draco even want to see him?

No. No, he didn’t. Everything would be better if Potter never showed his face here again.

“Go on, Draco,” Dr. Finch told him with a surreptitious wink, voice pitched low enough that Connor wouldn’t hear. “I won’t tell the other one.”

Draco opened and closed his mouth a few times in astonishment — for one, he was _not_ leading either of them on — but Connor swooped in to save him from replying. “We’ll see you later, Dr. Finch,” he said genially, holding the door open.

Taking his cue, Draco drew himself up to a dignified height and strode out the door.

Screw Potter. Draco was going on a date with an American muggle, and that was that.

 

They ended up going to a pub a few blocks away that Draco had never been to before. It was fairly clean, and not many people were there, but enough to have company. Draco was glad for that; he was worried they would go somewhere close-quartered and intimate. The only person he wanted to be close to and intimate with was Harry Potter — and that wasn’t about to happen any time soon. Or ever.

Except the whole point was to stop thinking about him.

Maybe Draco should just snog Connor and get it over with. It was perfect; Connor wouldn’t be sticking around anyway.

Draco watched Connor’s lips as he smiled cordially at the bartender serving them. They looked soft. And Connor was clearly interested. All Draco had to do was lean over….

_Harry had been so close…._

Draco looked into his drink before Connor could catch him staring. He couldn’t do it. Not with Harry’s face burned into his retinas.

“What’s his name?” Connor asked suddenly.

Draco looked over at him, startled from his thoughts. “Pardon?”

Connor rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “You stood me up for another guy, right? So, what’s his name?”

Draco stared at Connor in surprise. He was more observant than Draco had thought. And he was headed back to America in a few days anyway; what could it hurt to confide in him a little? “His name is, er, Harry.”

“Is he hot?”

Draco felt somewhat offended for a moment, until Connor waggled his eyebrows comically. “Of course he is, what do you take me for?” Draco said, acting appalled. But then he felt like he was coming off wrong. “But really, that’s not why I… like him.” It was too weird to say the word ‘love’ out loud. Even to this guy who Draco would never talk to again.

“Why then?” Connor asked, taking a pull of his beer.

Draco watched his throat swallowing it down with disinterest. A week ago that might have been attractive but now he felt too distanced. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t. He’s a tosser.”

Connor chuckled. “A tosser?”

“Like…a jerk,” Draco explained. “But, well, he’s kind of a really good person, too?” Images of Potter in school came to mind, when he’d defended Neville Longbottom and his other friends in first year, when he’d saved that Delacour girl from the lake in fourth year. Emerging soaking wet from the grimy lake. Water dripping down his lithe body.

Connor raised his eyebrows. “Sounds complex.”

Trying to shake himself from his thoughts, Draco sighed theatrically. “Believe me, he is. But also he’s just a complete idiot.”

Connor laughed loudly all of a sudden. “Wait, is this the the guy that interrupted us that first time? The one who thought I was insulting you?”

Draco groaned in secondhand embarrassment. “Yes.”

Still chuckling, Connor said, “I should’ve known.”

Draco gave him a puzzled look.

“You two have that whole hate-attraction thing going on,” Connor explained, catching Draco’s eye.

Draco scoffed, not letting himself think too hard about Potter liking him back. “That’s not a real term.”

Connor smirked. “Well, it’s not the first time I’ve seen that. Are you two dating then?”

“Merlin, no!” Draco burst out, nearly choking on his drink.

“Merlin?” Connor asked bemusedly. “Is that a British thing?”

Draco nodded quickly, not meeting his eyes. “Harry is,” he went on, hoping to distract from his slip-up, “a very good person.”

“So,” Connor said, “that’s why you won’t date him?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “No — well, yes — well….” He hesitated, glancing over at the earnest expression on Connor’s face. It wasn’t like Connor could tell anyone. With a sigh, Draco went on, “I was in a type of… gang, a few years ago. Got in with the wrong sort. I was… terrible, I did terrible things. But Harry, he saved me, from them, from myself. He… got the leader arrested, and most of the others too. They’re locked away for good, and I’m free to live my life.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth. “But, I never made up for what I did, I never sought forgiveness, I never tried to redeem myself. I never apologized to the people I hurt. Not even him.” Draco shook his head, feeling stupid for saying this all out loud. “And now he’s made it his mission to apologize to me and all my friends, when he wasn’t even the one who….” Draco trailed off, because he couldn’t very well explain how he’d held a wand to Dumbledore’s throat and nearly spoke those unforgivable words. “So even if he did feel something for me,” Draco continued, defeated, “how could I have someone so good when I’m this sullied?”

Draco stared intently into his glass; he didn’t want to see Connor’s reaction.

“It seems to me,” Connor ventured at last, “that you’re feeling super guilty about something you didn’t really have control over.”

Draco swallowed. “But I could’ve done the right thing. I was too afraid.”

“It’s not a crime to be afraid.”

“But it _is_ a crime to – ” Draco cut himself off before he admitted too much. It was a crime to torture people, it was a crime to assist a mass murderer. “Harry was always so brave. And I was always a coward.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw Connor take a long sip of his beer. He must be regretting this conversation. Before Draco could change the subject however, he put his drink down and turned to face Draco more fully. “Do you want to make out and forget about him for a bit?” Connor asked bluntly.

Draco nearly choked, but managed to appear unruffled. “You want to…?”

“What I _want_ to do,” Connor revised, “is take you back to my hotel room for the night. But I assume you don’t want to do more than make out, so I’m good with that too.”

Draco stared at the man next to him, feeling halfway between panicked and hopeful. Everything about him was golden-brown, from his eyes, to his skin, to his hair. He looked like the definition of ‘sun-kissed.’ And it didn’t matter that every time Draco didn’t see green eyes or black hair or a stupid lightning scar on his forehead he felt a twinge of disappointment. It was about time Harry Potter stopped ruling his life.

“No,” Draco said, leaning in closer to those brown eyes. “Let’s go to your hotel room.”

Connor grinned, letting one of his hands drop onto Draco’s knee, but before either of them could say or do anything more, one of the girls a few tables over gave a little shriek of excitement, and said, “Look! There’s an owl at the window!”

Draco whipped his head around to see a grumpy-looking barn owl pecking furiously at the window. Attached to its leg was a tiny scroll.

Draco groaned. It was Harry, it had to be. No one else would be so stupid as to send Draco letters via owl when he lived in a muggle area. And no one else would have the timing Harry did. Draco was caught between irritation, amusement, and relief. The spot on his knee where Connor was touching him felt uncomfortable all of a sudden.

“Woah,” Connor said, also looking over at the offending bird. “London is weird.”

“Excuse me for a moment,” Draco muttered, slipping off the barstool. Connor raised his eyebrows, but didn’t protest as his hand slid off Draco’s leg. Draco tried not to seem too eager to get away. The owl watched Draco shrewdly as he made his way toward the door, all while those muggle girls were snapping pictures of it with their phones. This would be so much simpler if he had his wand with him; as it was, he’d left the thing in his bedside drawer, like he did most days when he was spending time with muggles.

Luckily, the owl was smarter than Potter — not surprising, really — and so as soon as Draco stepped outside, it lifted a taloned foot and scratched through the tie holding the scroll to its other leg, letting the severed ribbon and the paper fall inconspicuously to the ground, and flew away with a indignant hoot. After waiting a moment for the spectators to turn away in disappointment, Draco leant down and swiftly retrieved the scroll. As much as Draco wanted to feel irritated at Harry’s thoughtlessness, he couldn’t tamp down on the excitement swelling in his chest. What was so important that Harry needed to write him? Did he visit the shop and couldn’t wait around for Draco to return? Was he finally breaking off his tenuous friendship with the Malfoy heir? Draco couldn’t open the scroll fast enough, his fingers fumbling in his haste.

At last, he held the paper open, eyes drinking in each word hungrily. It read:

_‘Dear Draco,_

_‘I enjoyed spending time with you these past weeks, even if I was mostly failing at the one task I set myself. Stupid Potter, I know. I’m sorry I haven’t visited in a few days; I’ve been busy at the auror’s office, though with nothing exciting — mostly paperwork. I am free however this evening at seven, and I was wondering if we could put a hiatus on our little apology mission’ —_

— and here Draco’s stomach dropped; Harry didn’t like him after all, he didn’t want to spend time with him, it all meant nothing —

— _‘and go out for drinks instead?’_

Draco’s breath stopped. Harry was asking him out for drinks. No, he couldn’t be. Draco reread the sentence again. And again. And —

— _‘I understand if you’d rather stay as far from me as possible, but I really hope you’ll say yes. I miss talking to you._

_‘Yours truly,_

_‘Stupid Potter’_

Draco snorted in spite of himself. What a dunce Harry was. A gorgeous, funny —

Draco couldn’t be seen in public with him; Harry would embarrass them both. It would just be awkward. Harry would realize that Draco was the scum of the earth while he was some sort of Jesus figure, and he would never want to see Draco again. Draco should write back, to tell him it wouldn’t work, they should stick to apologies and rejections, because that suited them much better than whatever this budding friendship had in store.

“Are you okay? You look freaked out,” came a voice from behind him, and Draco jumped, cursing himself that he’d forgotten Connor’s existence for a second time that day.

“I’m alright,” Draco replied, attempting to smooth out his expression. From the concerned look on Connor’s face, it wasn’t working. “I just….”

Unbidden, Harry’s face flashed before Draco’s eyes, so perfect, so _close_ ….

“Forgive me,” Draco said, shoving the note into his pocket and straightening up to a dignified height. “I have to go meet that boy I was telling you about.”

Connor’s worry morphed into a wry grin, though his eyes held some regret. Draco didn’t have the energy to feel sorry for leading him on. “The one you’re in love with?” he asked amiably.

“Yes,” Draco said curtly, and somehow saying that one word aloud brought a smile to his face. “The one I’m madly in love with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait! School is killing me, lol I actually have a test in 10 minutes  
> I hope this longer chapter is worth it :)


	15. The Terrible Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay; I'm doing my best!

This was a horrendous mistake.

Draco looked ethereal in the dim lighting at their booth, all white-gold skin and carefully styled hair in a striking emerald button-up. The only thing marring him was the sneer he wore on his face, and even that seemed lovely somehow.

Now that Harry had noticed Draco’s attractiveness — and _realized_ that he’d noticed — it was suddenly impossible not to glance at the other boy’s lips every few seconds, or stare at the way the lights reflected off his hair, or get lost in the musicality of his speech. Draco’s presence was so distracting, so intoxicating, he could hardly keep track of their conversations. He spoke without thinking, even though that was surely something Draco would take issue with. He couldn’t help it though — Draco was so alluring.

And Harry was in so much trouble.

Not the least of which with Draco himself, who seemed to be getting colder by the minute, his frown cutting into that seraphic face of his. Harry desperately wanted to smooth it out with his fingers. He didn’t dare.

“Alright there, Potter?” Draco cut through his reverie with a sharp tone. “Don’t let me bore you.”

Bore him? Harry straightened up hastily, realizing he’d been slumping slightly, and scrambled for words. “No – I – er – continue what you were saying,” he stuttered so very casually, endeavoring to listen intently to whatever Draco was saying. Unfortunately, this meant his eyes kept sliding down to Draco’s lips. He forced himself to look into Draco’s steely grey eyes instead, which wasn’t too hard once he got there. There was just a hint of blue in those smoky depths, and Harry chased after it with his eyes. If he stared long enough, he was sure he could evoke the exact color.

“I’m finished,” Draco snapped, pulling Harry from his thoughts once more. Merlin, he had never been this bad at school, even in Professor Binns’ class.

“With… your drink?” Harry asked, hoping he hadn’t missed anything too important.

“Talking,” Draco ground out, looking outright furious now.

“You can’t be!” Harry blurted, then winced at how idiotic that sounded. “I, er, I mean, why? There’s so much to talk about.”

Draco raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, urging Harry to continue.

“Er,” Harry went on quickly, “well, there’s so much. Like… Quidditch.”

Draco blinked owlishly at him; his eyes were mesmerizing. “Quidditch,” he repeated flatly.

Harry licked his lips nervously, and Draco glanced down at them so quickly Harry wasn’t sure if he imagined it or not. “Ron says the Chudley Cannons are going to win this season.”

Draco leaned back, crossing his arms. “Of course he does. Weasley’s an imbecile.” Draco turned his gaze to the rest of the pub, as if looking for a way out of this non-date with Harry.

“Well, he’s not,” Harry felt the need to defend — Ron was his best mate after all.

Draco’s gaze slid back to his, and Harry had to repress a shiver. His sneer was back in place. “I’m not interested in discussing the mental capacity of your… best mate.”

Harry leant forward, resting his arms on the table between them, not breaking his staring match with the blonde. “What _are_ you interested in, then?”

Draco stared at him, suspicion playing across his features until he forced his expression into something more neutral, and glanced restlessly away at the other patrons again. “Lots of things, Potter. You’ve known me for years, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

“Er,” Harry said, starting to panic, “of course I’ve noticed. You like….” _Picking on anyone not in Slytherin. Joining cults. Feeling superior to everyone else. Making a certain Gryffindor feel like the biggest idiot in the world. Sneering._ “Reading,” he settled on, remembering the muggle bookstore that Draco spent so much of his time in. “Learning about the muggle world.”

Harry met Draco’s slightly startled gaze, feeling rather pleased with his response. After a quiet moment, Draco prompted lazily, “Yes, go on.”

Harry frowned. “Er, well….”

“Is that all you know about me?” he scoffed, but there was something more hiding behind his mocking tone. Was it resentment, or hurt?

“You’ve changed a lot since school,” was what Harry said in his defense. “I want to know who you are _now_. I _like_ who you are now.” Harry bit his tongue when Draco’s eyes widened. “I mean,” he amended hastily, “you’re more yourself now. War makes people act different than they really are, and now that it’s over, I feel like I’m meeting the real you for the first time.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, but he didn’t look away, so Harry couldn’t be too disappointed. “What makes you think that wasn’t the real me?” he asked darkly. “The one who tortured people, and brought Death Eaters into Hogwarts?”

Harry was shaking his head even before Draco finished his question. “Because I could see the real you back then too. Only you were hiding better.”

“You’re wrong,” Draco snapped immediately, a mask of anger falling over his fair features. “I was myself then, and I’m myself now. Nothing has changed.”

“ _Everything_ has changed,” Harry insisted, wishing he could say the right thing to make Draco less defensive, the magic words to make him understand.

Draco huffed a laugh, a grating, humourless sound that resembled a sob more than mirth. “If you think that, you’re delusional. The only difference between now and then is that now everything’s invisible, just under the surface, waiting for an opportunity to rise up again.”

“What does that mean?” Harry asked, bewildered. “I’m an auror, I know there are still dark wizards, but – ”

“It’s not about dark wizards, Potter!” Draco exploded, only lowering his voice to a hiss when he saw people looking. “It’s about belief,” he went on vehemently. “Do you really think only ‘evil’ people believed in magical superiority? Do you really think it’s that black and white? Where do these ideas stem from, do you think?” Draco’s eyes were dark and dangerous, and he was leaning toward Harry now, which was severely impacting Harry’s ability to concentrate on the other boy’s words. “They come from places like Hogwarts. Or your precious Ministry of Magic.”

_That_ startled Harry enough to respond. “Are you mad? Those are the places that _foster_ magical and muggle relations!”

Draco snorted, unamused. “Those are the places that isolate witches and wizards from the muggle community entirely. _That_ is how the belief of superiority emerges. By distancing oneself from the other.”

Harry frowned, rage beginning to curdle in his stomach. “And I suppose you purebloods are above all that, then?” he retorted. “I suppose you think Dumbledore was a supremacist too?”

Draco raised his eyebrows at Harry like he was missing the most obvious fact in the world. “Potter, Dumbledore _was_ a magical supremacist. He was one of the main believers apart from the Dark Lord himself.”

Despite the clench of dread in his chest, Harry shook his head ardently. “That’s ridiculous,” he ground out.

Draco glowered back. “It’s not, and you know it.” He sat back, arms crossed calmly, contorting his expression into one of haughtiness. “And if you don’t, you really are brainwashed.”

Harry clenched his teeth, wondering how the night had turned out so poorly. It _was_ ridiculous! Dumbledore had done everything he could to protect muggles from people like Voldemort. How could Malfoy say all that with a straight face? “You’re one to talk,” Harry spat. “You never did anything except what your father told you.”

The effect was instantaneous. Draco’s eyes flashed in anger, then his entire face went blank. He stood abruptly, nearly knocking his drink over, and swept out of the booth as gracefully and confidently as the late Professor Snape. Without a word, he began to stride away towards the door.

“Wait, Draco!” Harry said, guilt settling into his ribs. He caught up with the blonde in only a few steps, and grabbed his arm.

Draco spun around as soon as Harry touched him, effectively breaking their contact. “Do not touch me, Harry Potter,” he hissed so menacingly that Harry stumbled a step back. Draco’s nostrils were flared, and he was glaring so hard Harry thought flames might burst from his eyes.

“Draco,” he tried again, as the Slytherin stood there fuming. “I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.”

That only seemed to infuriate him more. His clenched fists were shaking. “Stop with your insignificant apologies. They mean nothing.” Each word was infused with venom.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, hating the way that last name felt in his mouth, but knowing Draco would respond better to it right now. “I only meant…. I didn’t know very much, about Dumbledore. I… only wish he’d told me more about himself. I felt like I knew him, but I know I didn’t. I don’t like… finding out things about him that don’t line up with what I knew. It’s just, a sore spot for me, I guess. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.” Harry swallowed, realizing he’d looked down at his feet during his confession, and quickly darted his eyes back up to make sure Draco hadn’t left.

He was still there, staring at Harry with a coalescence of frustration and sympathy on his face. He hastily schooled his features when he saw Harry watching. “I see,” he said blandly. Neither made a move for a tense moment. Draco’s fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach out to Harry. Harry hoped he did. “I didn’t finish my drink,” Draco said instead, with a cool look at Harry.

“Me neither,” Harry replied with a small sigh of relief.

They both stood still for a moment longer before turning back to their table and sitting down again. It was quiet as they settled in. They both sipped uneasily at their drinks.

Harry was dying to say something, anything, just to make it less tense, but nothing came to mind. He opened his mouth a few times, only to close it seconds later because he couldn’t think of a topic. The weather was nice today. Hermione had been nagging him about paperwork again, classic Hermione. Ron managed to knock over his favorite Quidditch player in excitement while getting his autograph last week, can you imagine? But Draco didn’t care about Harry’s friends, that much was clear. The thought left him dejected.

And yet… he kept agreeing to see Harry. He came on this last minute date with him — well, not a date, just a… truce. He could’ve stormed out the minute things got heated. Why didn’t he?

“My point,” Draco abruptly stated, conversationally, as if there had never been a break in their discussion, “was simply that there are plenty of witches and wizards today who aren’t dark and evil, who don’t wish death on anyone, and yet they still believe in magical superiority. And when magic-kind lives or spends most of their time in places where muggles aren’t around, they lose touch.”

“There are loads of muggleborns at Hogwarts, and in the Ministry,” Harry replied, equally civil, not wanting to get into another fiery argument. “It seemed to me like Slytherins were the only magic supremacists in school.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but didn’t seem too bothered by the jab. “Did you ever take Muggle Studies, Potter?”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “No?”

“Of course you didn’t,” Draco sighed, “you’re as good as muggleborn. Muggle Studies is demeaning and dehumanizing. We don’t have _Wizard Studies_ , we have History of Magic. They treat the topic of muggles like zoology — you do know what zoology is, Potter?”

It was Harry’s turn to roll his eyes. “Yes, though I believe it’s called magizoology in the wizarding world.”

“Correct,” Draco agreed brusquely. “Now, for the most part — excepting the Lovegoods probably — no one considers animals to be on the same level as humans. The same sort of ideology exists when we study muggles. It’s all about how much _less_ advanced muggles are, and how they _barely_ get along without magic. It’s imperious. _Slytherins_ don’t take that class by the way; other students do.”

“But at least they _tried_ to understand muggles, even if it was misguided,” Harry countered, frowning, “whereas most Slytherins just outright hated them.”

“It’s not _hate_ , Potter,” Draco insisted with frustration. “When you think you’re above something else, you don’t hate them. You just think they’re worth less than you. Their lives are worth less than yours. It just makes sense.”

Harry felt himself starting to get worked up again. “That’s not true,” he bit back. “Muggles aren’t less – ”

Draco cut him off with an exasperated sigh. “I’m not saying they are,” he said tiredly. “I’m just explaining how it works. It’s not hate. That’s why so many normal people can feel superior without wanting to hurt anyone. I feel superior to cats, but that doesn’t mean I want to hurt them.” He sighed again, looking very worn out. “This war you think you’ve won, it will never be over. The magical world will always hold disdain for the non-magical one. Parents will continue to pass down their beliefs, however benign, however subtle, and every once in a while, those beliefs will culminate in someone who _does_ want to take it further, another dark witch or wizard. And one of them will be powerful enough to devastate the world again. And then they will be taken down. It goes on forever. Fighting evil wizards won’t solve anything. If you want to stop this war, you have to fight your battles in the minds of the children. You have to show them what makes muggles special, the things they can do that wizardkind _can’t_. That’s how you end magical supremacy. Not with magic, with empathy.”

Something about Draco had changed, a release of tension somewhere, a loss of aggression making him look more vulnerable. Whatever it was, Harry loved it.

“I’m helping with the Hogwarts Unity event this year,” he said, trying to mask his besotted tone. “I think you’d be a great speaker there.”

Draco made a contemptuous face. “I would never attend something that grossly anti-Slytherin.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “It’s not anti-Slytherin. It’s about house unity.”

Draco gave him a disbelieving look. “It’s the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. It celebrates the bravery of Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs, and how the big bad Slytherins were locked in the dungeons for all of it.” Draco’s tone was scathing.

Harry bit his lip. He hated making Draco upset. He just wanted to have a nice conversation with him. And then maybe kiss him. “You’re probably right,” he sighed, not sure if he completely agreed, but needing to show Draco he was on his side. “They’re always trying to get me to give a speech too, and I’ve never wanted to. It always felt like it was for the wrong reasons. Maybe this year I’ll ask someone else to fill in for me.”

Draco looked at him curiously. “You will?” he asked; his voice sounded strangely hopeful.

“Yes,” Harry assured, grasping onto that thread of hope. “Now tell me,” he added with a hint of playfulness. “Who _is_ Draco Malfoy? What should I know about my ex-nemesis?”

The other boy hesitated, like he was debating between shutting down or acquiescing.

“Please,” Harry tacked on for good measure.

After a moment, Draco huffed, leaning back into his seat with finality. “I’m not very interesting,” he said.

Harry smiled, because that was the biggest lie he’d ever heard. “I’m listening.”


	16. The Tale of Dr. Finch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (sorry for the year-long hiatus)

“I’m glad we got to spend _some_ time together,” Connor said earnestly as he squeezed Draco’s arm.

“As am I,” Draco replied. It was true: talking with Connor had definitely cleared things up in his mind. “Have a good flight.”

“Thanks,” Connor said, and then winking at Dr. Finch behind the counter: “It was good to meet you too, Doctor.”

Dr. Finch smiled warmly at him. “Get home safe.”

With a parting grin, Connor left the shop, the bell on the door ringing behind him as it closed. Draco smiled after him, feeling lighter for having unloaded his boy troubles onto the surprisingly understanding American, and especially after that night at the bar with Harry. As disastrous as it had seemed, he hadn’t wanted to go home at the end of the night. At least not without Harry coming with him.

Dr. Finch snorted, startling Draco from his thoughts. “You’re worse than I was at your age,” she told him, looking amused.

Draco raised an eyebrow, smirking bemusedly. “What do you mean?”

She smirked knowingly at him. “Leading those two boys on.”

Draco gave her an indignant look, but Dr. Finch barked a laugh and he decided to go along with it. “I doubt that,” he chuckled. “I bet you were all sorts of trouble.”

Dr. Finch shook her head as though in disapproval. “Well, at least my girlfriends knew about each other.

Draco spluttered for a moment. “Wait, Dr. Finch, you’re gay?”

Dr. Finch gave him a sly smile. “You’ve never asked, dear, but yes, I am.” She waggled her eyebrows at him suggestively.

Laughing, Draco asked, “You had _two_ girlfriends?”

Dr. Finch let out a snort. “Only for a little while,” she told him, eyes twinkling. “I fell in love after that, never felt the same about a girl again.”

“What was her name?”

“Tatiana,” Dr. Finch sighed, looking into the distance. “She was the most incredible woman I’d ever met.”

“Much like you then,” Draco said, perfectly aware that his flattery would gain him no favors.

“She was brilliant,” Dr. Finch went on, ignoring Draco’s comment. “And gorgeous, of course. She had this insanely curly black hair that she wore in dreadlocks, and black-framed glasses. Her eyes were the color of coffee — not quite black, but almost there.” Dr. Finch sighed dreamily, and it was a side of her that Draco had never seen before. “She had a PhD in astrophysics. She had to work so much harder than any white man to get it, too. Moved to the U.S. to work for NASA.”

“Why didn’t you follow her?” Draco asked hesitantly, not wanting to disrupt her fond memories.

“Oh, I did,” Dr. Finch assured him, blinking back into the present. “Surprised her in Florida. We lived together for two years. The happiest years of my life.” Dr. Finch’s face suddenly darkened, like the lights had all dimmed at once. “But she was killed.”

Draco couldn’t help the sharp intake of breath.

“It was racial. The police said it was suicide. They did nothing.”

“Merlin’s beard,” Draco breathed.

“There was nothing I could do back then,” Dr. Finch said, expression softening out with a more muted melancholia. “Too many things had to be kept secret.”

“Dr. Finch,” Draco murmured, struggling for words, “I’m so….”

“Don’t waste your time being scared,” she told him suddenly, back to her usual self.

“I’m not scared.”

“Yes you are.”

Draco bit his lip. “I’m not good enough for him,” he whispered, feeling shame creep through him at the admission. “I did bad things.”

“Nonsense,” she snapped, nostrils flaring, and for a moment she reminded him of Professor Mcgonagall. “I don’t need to know all the details to know that who you are now is what matters.”

Draco met her earnest eyes. “It doesn’t erase my past. I…was like those people…those people who believed they were better than others. Superior.” The confession was more difficult than he’d imagined. His vision seemed to swim and crossfade to the face of the muggle studies teacher that the Dark Lord had tortured and killed in his own dining room, and the way Nagini had swallowed her body whole as she struggled and begged. Harry wouldn’t have sat there petrified and done nothing. He would’ve saved her, the great big hero that he was.

Dr. Finch’s expression didn’t falter. “Well, you aren’t like that anymore, are you?”

“No,” he said quickly, the guilt still gnawing at his stomach, “I’m not, but – ”

“It does no good to dwell on the past.” Dr. Finch turned her attention back to the book she was examining on her desk, ignoring the pained expression colouring Draco’s pallid features.

Dr. Finch would’ve saved that woman too. How could he stand here and pretend he was worthy of these heroes? He wasn’t like them. He was just a boy without a spine. If he couldn’t stand up for what was right back then when it had mattered, how could he claim to have changed now the danger was passed? If Dr. Finch knew him back then, would she be talking to him today? He’d never wanted to reveal the wizarding world to her so badly as he did right then, when the words to explain his predicament failed him.

Draco swallowed heavily, feeling as if peanut butter was sticking to his mouth. But he had to ask. “If the man who killed Tatiana,” Draco began, “came to you today and said he was sorry, that he didn’t believe that way anymore…would that really change anything? Would who he is now even matter?”

Dr. Finch didn’t respond immediately. Her mouth was creased in a grim frown, her eyes shuttered of emotion. When she finally did speak, it wasn’t in answer to his question. “Go, Draco. Live your life. And love the people you’re allowed to love now.”

When she took her book and turned, Draco could tell he’d been dismissed. Heart heavy with unsaid words, Draco made his way silently to the door, trying to ignore the telltale sob which emanated from behind Dr. Finch’s desk.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you want more!


End file.
